


Ren-Faire of the Damned

by PurpleMoon3



Series: Executioner Dresden [3]
Category: Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter - Laurell K. Hamilton, The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Bacon, Bonding Time, Drinking Quest, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Harry-as-Anita, Not Bondage Time, wereleopards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-09-15 14:05:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9238208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleMoon3/pseuds/PurpleMoon3
Summary: Richard gets Tickets.  Harry gets an Idea.  Jean-Claude gets his inner Diva on.  In other words, the triumvirate goes to a Renaissance Festival.





	1. Phone Tag and Packages

Winter had passed, and an awkward Christmas with it, but it was still chilly in the evenings. I was wrapped in my 'Wizzard Robes' as Zane liked to put it, crouched over the table in my workshoppe as I braided together the various segments of my new soon-to-be shield bracelet. The workshoppe -and something about the 'e' on the end that the Pard insisted on adding always teased a smile to my lips- was a far cry from ye olde sub-basement. It was actually a small barn that had seen double duty as a garage. One of the owners before me had broken down the individual stalls, creating a much more open space, and I'd found enough oil-soaked kitty litter to fill in the blanks on my own.

I'd replaced the oil stains with silver circles, and racks of rusty tools with potion ingredients. The loft still remained from the original barn. I had a warm quilt and coffee table up there. Lots of books, too.

There was a fire going in the portable fire pit by the opened window, the iron bowl plus decorative stand a Christmas gift from Jean-Claude, and it crackled cheerfully as I muttered Latin under my breath while threading silver, copper, and gold in and around a steel chain core. I had considered sending the fire pit back; we might be on better terms since fighting off the French invasion together, but I wasn't his girlfriend. And I hadn't thought to get him anything, which caused a wriggle of guilt in the back of my mind that made Lash to sigh and cluck her tongue at me.

According to her, it was less the object that mattered and the message that came with it.

He'd sent me a god-damned fire pit.

I'd, with help, turned his largest business into a charred husk. Me keeping the thing was message to his dissenters more than me. A controlled burn. I was the Executioner. The boogeyman in the weapon's chest. When I passed through the District eyes averted.

I'd been avoiding the area because of more than Jean-Claude; though the sporadic letters he wrote me were more amusing than stalker-y.

Absorbed in my magic, I almost missed the little bell above the door give a cheerful ding-a-ling. “Be with you in a second!” I shouted, my gaze drawn by the fusing metals. I'd commissioned a silver smith to make some shield and pentacle shaped charms for me -and I was still surprised at how much more expensive silver was in this reality- but those wouldn't be coming in by carrier till next week. Still, that was no reason for me to be slacking on my end. Gold and copper glowed with heat, merging into a soft pink color, connecting in turn to the clasp of the bracelet.

Finished, I dropped the whole thing into a bowl of herbs and olive oil. It wasn't to quench the metal, or even some esoteric potion, but a short-cut for my own subconscious associations. Olive. Olive-Branch. Peace. Cease-fire. Seven degrees of Kevin Bacon.

I didn't have Bob to help me figure out the perfect recipes anymore, and every little bit helps.

Holding my hands over the bowl, I closed my eyes and thought happy thoughts. Watching my Dad work a show. Eating hotdogs at the drive-in movie. The first time I lit a candle. The taste of fresh picked blackberries. Playing with Mouse in the park. Running fast and without a care under the moonlight. The snug, secure feel of a well tailored coat. Laughing at Ivy's first attempt to drive herself, well, anywhere. I exhaled, magic draining from my bones and soaking into the bracelet, solidifying.

I shook my head, breaking free of the sudden wave of exhaustion and inevitably followed any imbuement. I reached up with one arm, scars pulling white, and stretched with a moan.

“You need something, Viv?” I asked with a smile, no teeth.

Vivian was my personal assistant. She kept my schedules, acted as the middle man between my phone calls and my phone killing magic, and generally kept me abreast of anything I _really_ needed to know about the politics of the city. She, and the whole gossip girl group really, were a big help there. Though to be honest being on the very bottom of the supernatural pecking order sort-of demanded that last. It was a survival mechanism.

Also, them being on the bottom meant that the Pard was stock full of people so submissive they probably would have nodded along and humored me if I told them I was an alien from the planet krypton instead of possessing minor case of amnesia so necessitating Vivian's help.

The wereleopard smile back, curling one finger around a hank of dark hair as she leaned on the doorframe. “The Ulfric's on the phone. Wants to talk to you.”

“Richard? This late?” I checked the window, just in case I had lost myself in work again, but the sliver of moon visible was still bright and high. It was Tuesday. I may not have had a typical education in either life, but I was pretty sure he had assignments to grade. Or a giant praying mantis to fight off.

Actually, I knew jack shit about how highschools functioned. According to the Vampire Diaries it was all parties, teenage angst, and the occasional history paper. I'm pretty sure the actual vampires thought it was a comedy.

I flexed my hands, shaking out the kinks accumulated from the hour or so of detail work, and my pink panther fuzzy slippers padded silently to the door. I hung my purple terry cloth robe on the coat rack and followed Vivian out the door. It wasn't too bad, but the sole of the slippers was soft enough I could still feel the juts and contours of the gravel path that connected the workshoppe to the driveway and the house proper.

It was originally one story, a large kitchen and sitting room with two smaller bedrooms. At some point there had been an excess of children and an additional level was added, another bathroom and two larger bedrooms. The whole thing needed a new paint job, but none of us could agree on what color.

Nathaniel wanted sunshine yellow. Vivian just wanted to reapply the whitewash.

I was campaigning for periwinkle. Mostly I just wanted to be able to say it. _Hello. My name is Harry Dresden. This is my house. No, it is not blue. What ever gave you that idea? My walls are clearly periwinkle!_

The steps creaked in that way that all aged wood does with weight applied to it. The screen door squeaked. I passed the living room on the way to the second first floor bedroom, now converted to an office, and could see Zane and Stephen were arguing over grappling rules. Cherry was smirking behind her Game Master's screen. It wasn't _Arcanos_ , but it was close.

I closed the office door as I walked through, nudging it shut with my heel. The carpet was plush and amazing and why the hell had it taken me so long to get my own house? I took up the phone from where it huddled on a repurposed kitchen table. I slid my finger up and down the cord, smiling in that practiced way every small business owner knows. “Evening, Furball.”

“That's King Furball to you, Pyro.” Richard laughed, low and hot like a summer wind, and I Listened.

My phone had already started the low pop of static buzz, but I fancied I could hear others behind Richard. A skritch of a pencil. A growl of disgruntlement. I pressed my butt to the lip of the table, and with a flex of my feet pushed up to perch on the edge. “That is slander. The Circus wasn't even my fault! The Judge said so. And the insurance adjusters.”

“Not too sure that would be the case if they knew what I knew. Pyro.” Now he was indeed snickering, and I definitely heard the sound of manly punches. That particularly dull echo of fist on chest was unmistakable.

“And what's that? The taste of your own balls?”

“Ha. Ha. Does Baccus Cemetery ring a bell? Or that House that went up a few years ago in the Highlands?”

I could feel the muscles in my face twitching with indecision. Those memories were foggy, from before I was really _here_ , but they _felt_ like me. And there was one thing that shone clear in the mists. “That wasn't my fault either! The house was a vampire lair, and Kincaid was the one who brought the flamethrower! Not me! _And_ he was the one who lit up those gas canisters in the shed.”

I defended myself while leaving out the fact that burning down a locked supply shed, while we were in it, did indeed sound like something I would do. If it was the only way to escape said shed.

I could hear Richard's wolfish grin through the crackling phone line. “Mmm-hmm. And Branson?”

“Hells Bells, Richard! What is this, the Ulfric Inquisition? I'm hanging up now.”

“Wait, wait! Sorry, I just... rumors, you know?” Rumors. Right. Three guesses who started them and the first two don't count.

“Are you drunk? Did you drunk dial me?” I jerked my head away from the speaker as a particularly loud pop cannoned through the phone. There was dead air, and I was about to hang the phone back in the cradle when the Ulfric's voice suddenly came back.

“... pattern. Harriet? You still there?”

I sighed, fingers drumming on the painted _periwinkle_ surface of the table. “Yeah, I'm here. Not sure why.”

“Look, the History department got a lot of tickets for the Renaissance Festival as a promotion thing. I thought maybe you and I could go?”

I sighed, again. I leaned back, my torso just covering the distance from one side of the table to the other, my head dangling off the edge as I pressed forearm to forehead. My slipper feet dangled. I let the bemusement fall from my face, cold indifference blooming in its place. “Richard... we've been over this. I'm just not into you. Or Dicks in general.”

“I don't mean like a date!”

“Really.”

“I just figured you might like it, I want to go but...” Richard's tread echoed on hardwood, the chuckles behind him fading. “...Shang-Da and Jamil would insist on one of them going with me. I wouldn't even take a piss myself if they had their way. And neither of them are the sort I'd inflict on a family friendly environment.”

I could imagine them, dark and foreboding, following behind their king like two dark clouds. Jamil might loosen up long enough to enjoy the atmosphere, but he was also the guy that tried to insist on staying in the room while his Ulfric had sex for 'safety reasons'. Yeah. I could see Richard's point.

But did I really want to encourage my old stalker?

It would also be nice to get out for a bit. If I wasn't working a case with the police or serving a warrant I mostly holed up at the house like your typical wizard hermit. All I needed was a tower. I'd finished my new staff and a backup, brewed potions, spell crafted rings. Surely I should reward myself with a turkey leg? Or funnel cake. Nothing, and I mean nothing, beat fair food. My mouth started to water just thinking about it, and no one at a Ren-Faire would think twice if I carried a staff. Hell, no one would bat an eye if Jean-Claude showed up in his casual wear.

Actually...

“Can you imagine Jean-Claude at a Ren-Faire?” I could, and it was a hilarious mental image of him critiquing costumes before being mobbed by ladies with cameras.

“I hadn't actually thought about it... but now that you mention it they started doing this thing where every other weekend has late hours. Instead of closing ceremonies they go around and light all these candles. Supposed to be really pretty.”

“How many tickets are left?” I asked, my idle thought turning into an actual plan. The door was closed. My feet kicked happily. “Can you get anymore?”

“Probably.”

“Do it.” I didn't smile. I grinned. “We should all go. As a... tri-guy bonding thing. Totes.”

“That would make Shang-Da happy, at least. I swear, he thinks I'm going to hug an assassin. Why I would have an assassin after me, I don't know.”

“At least he's loyal?” I offered, Richard's voice getting softer and softer until I had to strain my Listening to hear him. “Look, phone is being crap again. I'll call JC, you get the tickets.”

“Thanks, Harry.”

“Goodnight, Richard.”

I hung up the phone and glanced at the red blinking bars that formed the time. It was late enough the Master of the City would be well into his 'day'. If I called Guilty Pleasures, someone there would probably know where he was. I rolled onto my stomach, a heavy glass penguin -seriously, why did I have so many littering the place?- digging into my hip, and pulled open the squat filing cabinet stuffed under the table.

I plucked the very literal little black book from its spot and flipped to the G's.

On the bright side, I thought as I sat up with the address book open in my lap,  maybe with my technology issues Jean-Claude's voice wouldn't be able to molest me over the phone.

* * *

 

Jean-Claude hadn't been at Guilty Pleasures. He wasn't, as Byron informed me after taking the phone from the desk girl, at any of the vampire run businesses. Apparently the Circus wasn't zoned for residential use, supposedly a city official 'grandfathered' it in when Nikolaos laired there, and rebuilding efforts meant Jean-Claude was out with a realtor looking at houses. Not that I believed for a second the majority of the vampires would actually stay where ever. Only a really, really stupidly over-confident vamp would leave such an obvious trail to his resting place, citizenship or no.

Byron promised he'd let JC know I called, and that I'd probably hear back the next night.

“Ma petite, I am honored you would think of me.” Jean-Claude's voice had traded seduction for amusement as I noisily snacked on Cheetos. Nathaniel was making dinner; it was another half hour before the pot roast would be ready. It was a little upsetting how he'd taken over the kitchen like a rampaging mother-in-law. “Though, I must confess I am unsure as to what all such an event would involve. I am not, hmm, exactly enthused at the thought of petting zoos and a ring toss.”

I gave an unseen, dismissive wave of orange tipped fingers. “It isn't that kind of fair. There is a gaming area, yeah, but it's mostly about the food. Not that you can eat that but, um, atmosphere? They got shows and skits and lots of booths with period inspired clothing and I like to check out the old-timey apothecaries.”

“Clothing, you say?” The strange lilt in JC's voice had my mind flashing to Mister, sitting atop an overstuffed bookshelf and purring from on high.

“Yup.” I popped the P as though I'd burst a wad of gum. The sound echoed in the phone like a backfiring car. “Half the fun is checking out the costumes everyone else is wearing. I don't know if Richard has any plans on that front, but I was thinking of getting a hooded cloak to go with my staff, maybe get a nice leather belt while we are there...? Jean-Claude?”

It's unsettling when a vampire goes quiet. Most younger vamps, say half a century and below, tend to hold onto the habits of life. Breathing. Blinking. Shifting their weight and all the subtle movements that goes with it. Older vampires like Jean-Claude don't do any of that unless they are trying to pass as human. It is like staring at a wax sculpture that will come to life and eat you any moment.

Jean-Claude tended to go still at odd times. I wasn't sure if he was constantly playing at humanity or if he simply preferred the pretense. I'd killed plenty of vampires since waking in this world that didn't bother with the morality play.

“...I am here, petite.” My mental image of a cat switched from Mister to Cheshire, toothy grin and all. I could just pick up the shuffling of papers. “Have you considered transport? I can have-”

“Richard's driving; already got a hotel room booked and everything. He really, really wants to get away from his babysitters, if you know what I mean.”

“I see. Then, if you would permit me to select our dress? If it is a festival as you say, it would only be right to embrace such celebrations to the best of our abilities. Oui?”

My mouth hung open as my brain stalled. No one I knew would expect me to agree, but the truth was I enjoyed an excuse to dress up. The problem was I didn't like _dressing up_. I liked cosplay. Clothes that were comfortable, that dramatically drifted on the wind behind me- that was harmless fun. Numerous, warm layers.

The kind of costumes that vampires and shapeshifters usually pulled out were chosen for physical and sexual intimidation. Strips of studded leather and vast panes of skin separated by thin lines of silk. Or, in the case of Raina, nothing but sneeze inducing diamond dust. That wasn't my kind of party. At all.

Something in my stomach clenched, a worm of regret. I licked my lips. “I suppose. But no stripper outfits! It may be _after dark_ but I retain the right to veto anything that makes me feel like a whore. I'm also bringing my staff.”

I wasn't going anywhere without my staff. Not anymore.

Jean-Claude's answer was warm, somehow curling past the static like a searching vine and rubbing soft velvet against my cheek. “Non. You shall be as modest as you are lovely, ma sorcière.”

Rolling my eyes, I hung up.

* * *

 

Richard had been more surprised by the large package that arrived on his porch than he was by the level of scrutiny Jamil gave the confusing cardboard box. His skoll was been the only enforcer left from Marcus' reign, and at first the wolf king generally assumed the level of dedication Jamil put into his position was a push to prove himself and his worth. The other werewolf had, after all, only been with Thronnos Rokke a few weeks before Richard had challenged Marcus for kingship.

That after being banished from his previous pack, exact reason untold. Some might call the enforcer bad luck.

The former Ulfric and Lupa had not been the only ones to die that night. Thinking about it, about the way Richard's claws carved through meat and bone and blood of if not friends, exactly, close acquaintances and companions still made the Ulfric a little sick. In the heat of the moment it hadn't mattered. His beast at the forefront, his heart full of fire, and there was those who hurt what was his and those that _were_ his.

It wasn't until after, with the power of the Lukoi shifting around him and settling like a torc around his throat, that Richard felt a word burn into his mind: Murderer.

Monster.

The boy his mother raised would have gone to the police, plead defense of others, but that child had been consumed by a wolf in the woods. If he had done that, confessed to the killings instead of letting a dozen odd people quietly go missing, the upper echelons of the Pack would have been wide open for someone on par with Raina to take over. Or, worse, a civil war within the single largest werewolf clan in the United States that would leave bodies in the streets. So Richard kept his mouth shut, retained what little he could of the previous regime, and only occasionally woke screaming with the memory of blood in his mouth. He pardoned slights that others would have demanded restitution for. He filled in the oubliette.

He made troublemakers grade the shit-tastic biology papers written by seventh graders as punishment.

Monster.

The word still lurked in the back of his mind, when the moon and his own blood was high.

“What is this?” Jamil had opened the box, after sniffing for chemicals that might indicate a bomb or poison. He would know better than Richard. The skoll lifted free a bundle of fabric and fur wrapped in tissue paper.

Richard barked a laugh. Woven leather breeches, and a heavy linen blouse. An option of long coat or cloak, with straps crossing over plate. A single parchment card with the familiar flowing script: _J’attends avec impatience notre rencontre, mon loup._

There was the ghost-feel of fingers in his ruff, a trickle of power soothing the spark of unease inside him. Dark pools of water framed by lashes of ink; a lead of the thinnest string coming from the torc at his neck and stretching into the distance. A memory of fingers again, smaller, delicate, at his chin as brown irises swallowed him down and showed him the truth of monsters.

 _If you must be a monster,_ Jean-Claude had once whispered in the depths of the Circus, long fingers trailing down Richard's spine. _Why not be King?_

Richard chuckled, shaking his head as he snatched the outfit from bodyguard's indignant hold and headed to his room. Best to make sure the vampire hadn't sent him a costume one size too small. The undead clothes horse sometimes forgot not everyone wanted to be poured into their pants.


	2. Commutes and Compromises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Richard commiserate over unwanted jailbait. Jean-Claude is Jean-Claude and playing the long game.

“I'll be fine.” I assured Nathaniel for what felt like the thousandth time. It was Friday night. He was sitting on my suitcase as the most passive-aggressive protestor, eyes downcast as auburn hair spilled around him like a veil. Vivian sat next to him with a hand on his shoulder. “Richard and JC aren't going to- to take _advantage_ of me.”

Zane stood next me, adding his glare to mine. I honestly didn't know why the technicolor snow-cone cat spent so much time at my house -he had his own apartment, after all, he wasn't like Viv who would have had an hour's commute every morning- but I appreciated the back up, such as it was. Me going on a retreat with the rest of the Triumvirate hadn't seemed like such a big deal a week ago. A week ago, however, I hadn't received boxes of various dimensions arriving on my porch every morning filled with random additions and accoutrements.

“They're not courting gifts.” There had been a set of bangles in one box I was sure were gold. But that was vampires for you. He'd even included this one belt that at first glance looked like it was designed for bullets, but the leather loops were too big for any caliber I used yet _perfect_ for the smaller vials I kept on hand, usually for gathering potion ingredients. “You've seen Jean-Claude. I think it's him actually trying to be nice and not a mico-managing creeper.”

Zane decided enough was enough. He marched across my bedroom, grabbed Nathaniel by the bicep with one hand and chin with the other. I didn't know the whole history of the Pard before I pumped Gabriel full of silver bullets -and it was so damn convenient silver did not have to be inherited to be effective- but it was enough for Kincaid to pout about me stealing his kill and sending me half a bounty I hadn't even been aware of.

Zane's eyeteeth resembled vampire fangs, a symptom of being in his wereleopard form too much. The only reason any were would risk such an obvious tell was if someone stronger had made them stay in it.

Wide, watery violet eyes stared into an unnatural green. “The Ulfric isn't Gabriel.” Zane breathed, his mouth inches away from Nathaniel's. “Isn't Raina. Stop. Challenging. The Nimir-Ra.”

Instantly, sullen stubbornness transformed into fear. “I-I wasn't! I didn't mean-”

I stepped quickly to reclaim my suitcase as Zane dragged a stuttering, apologizing Nathaniel from the room. Vivian followed with my costume proper, enclosed as it was in one of those zippered hanger sacks I usually only saw in relation to wedding dresses. She hung it on my staff, which I'd propped over my shoulder like a fishing pole. Inviting Jean-Claude meant we'd missed the Pirate theme as that was day-time hours only. It'd also meant JC enjoyed an additional seven days to plan for a weekend of Fantasy & Masquerade.

Sometimes I wondered if one of Jean-Claude's vampires had been turned specifically for tailoring skills, or if he just hoarded fancy clothes like some kind of really confused dragon.

I dragged my suitcase down the hall, dress swinging behind me as the world's fanciest knapsack. I ignored the thumping above me while werecats argued upstairs. A well aimed kick forced the front screen open just as Richard's Mazda honked his impatience. It seemed the less possessive my undead stalker became the more needy and controlling the subbiest sub of the subs grew.

 _C'est la vie_.

I hopped off the porch, skipping the steps entirely, and gravel crunched under my stamping feet as I maneuvered around tinted window to the back of the car. The door unlatched and rose on pneumatics before I'd even reached it. There was a steamer trunk taking up most of the floor in the back, an army duffle and a smaller sleeping kit piled atop it. I added my own suitcase and staff to the collection and hooked my costume on a hand grip.

Once I was in the front passenger seat I could see JC sprawled out in the backseat not unlike one of my own leopards. I froze as a dissonant vertigo overtook me, one foot in the car and one on the ground. With his usual dress code of ruffles and leather I figured he'd just get into the mood early, maybe throw in a cape or something. What I expected did not match the loose, fading jeans or soft black tee that made him look less like an undead opera singer and more human.

Jean-Claude had the tiniest smile on his face, so small I could have missed it, but about thirty minutes into our two hour drive Marlon Brando died an ignoble death as his lady luck ran out and the indash MP3 player decided to hold Richard's CD hostage. JC's smile twitched higher. I could see it reflected in the rearview, and I knew he was laughing at me. Without _actually_ laughing.

The wolf-king pursed his lips, considering, and flicked the malfunctioning equipment hard enough to dent the hardened plastic. The player spasmed, a rolling clicking of mechanisms that popped a sliver of silver disc out like a teasing tongue before being sucked back into the nether realm. I mumbled an apology to Richard's MP3 player and crossed my arms, shifting to stare out the window.

It was dark, of course, the highway empty but for a few red glows in the distance. I leaned my head against the window and watched as our increasing speed melted scraggly trees and brush into indistinct background. Richard's thumbs beat out a rhytm on the steering wheel, seemingly picking up where the music cut off, and I snorted as we zipped beneath an overpass.

Richard is such a geek. He's not even a proper nerd, like me, but a _geek._ And yet he is built like a varsity football player with smooth, silky hair that could make an angel weep and sometimes literal puppy-dog eyes. I couldn't really blame him for thinking I was interested the first time we met, but then again he'd been bare ass naked and in those circumstances any warm blooded human would have had difficulties looking away. He was just so... _there_.

I exhaled, letting the vibrations from tire against concrete lull the nerves that had been pricking all day. I closed my eyes and relaxed the mental fist I'd been restraining my magic with. Richard glanced at me, hands pausing on the wheel, his eyes gold and pupils black pin pricks as his nostrils flared. He blinked, and his eyes were human again.

“You alright?”

“How do you deal with the whole hot-for-teacher mess?” I broke the comfortable silence with an uncomfortable question, shrugging. Eloquence, thy name is Dresden. Richard made a choking sound while Jean-Claude raised one hand politely over his mouth.

“I'm not sure what you're asking.”

I huffed, keeping my eyes on the blurred shadows of greenery. My finger traced shapes on the glass, body heat fogging against the cool night. “Paging Dr. Jones? You can bench press a truck, more importantly you _look_ like you can bench press a truck.”

“Is this academic or...?”

“I believe,” Jean-Claude cut in, shifting from his casual lounging to poke his head between the driver and passenger seats. He propped his chin in his palm, elbow on the dividing cubby. “What Ma Petite is asking is how to turn down an admirer who is somewhat younger than herself. Perhaps a charge of her own?”

“Harry?” Richard did concerned very well. It was a full body expression, strong shoulder's slumping down even as his eyebrows went up. One hand even rose from the steering wheel as if to touch me, before my own grunt of ten-and-two sent it back into position. I sighed, my scrawling shapes turning into aimless tapping.

“I'm fine. At first I thought it was culture clash. I'm having some trouble with the Pard, not everyone but...” I ground my head against the glass for a moment, considering. “It's Nathaniel. He's been acting weird. Well, they all act a little weird but he bakes the cake.”

Richard's eyebrows dipped. JC gave a quiet little hum that touched my shoulder. I rubbed it self-consciously.

“I mean, he gave me porn tapes for Christmas. Pornos. Starring him.” I groaned, thinking of the way Nathaniel tended to pose when walking into a room. I knew he'd gotten a job as a stripper -I suspected JC had done it for my benefit, to get the youngest werekitty out of the house- and I understood the need to practice routines but the kid took it to a whole new level. At least when I was in the room. “He's nineteen! He must have been, what, sixteen when he made them?”

Jean-Claude's voice had an odd echo to it when he questioned, “Yet, you watched the films?”

“I didn't know! I assumed they were indie films -cult classics and bootlegs- not porn.”

Richard frowned, the leather wrap on the steering wheel squeaked as we passed the speed limit. “Raina and Gabriel made a lot of movies; not all of it snuff. I think Gabriel fancied himself an artist. Maybe it is a leopard thing?”

I shifted around in my seat, back to the door, and pulled one knee to my chest. It was pose I would never have been able to make work as a giant beanpole. “I asked Zane about it. He was actually pretty embarrassed and we burned the tapes but when Nathaniel found out he got mad. Well, as mad as he gets, anyway. Moped around a lot. Then he asked me to go to Narcissus' with him, you know, because apparently he can't be allowed to go himself.”

“He is trying to seduce you.” Jean-Claude's voice was flat. Cold. I rubbed my arm, willing the goosebumps away.

“Yeah.”

Richard's voice held a strangled confusion. “He, uh, does realize you're gay, right?”

“Yeah. I think that's why he's been growing his hair out.” That was an understatement. Nathaniel's hair had been long to begin with, but now if it he wasn't careful he'd sit on it. Taking Jean-Claude's half lidded eyes as a cue, I decided against mentioning the kid's casual kitchen takeover, trading dinner duties with the rest of my housemates until it was either me at the grill or him in a lace apron with his hair up.

“I don't suppose making him watch graphic birthing videos for extra credit is an option? That usually kills the mood.”

“I don't think he's even got a GED.” I shuddered. Babies. That was something I had to consider, now. Not that I intended to get into any situations that might result in babies, but church doctrine and magical theory agreed abstinence is only ninety-nine point three two percent effective.

“Harry.” Richard stated with a wry smile. “I never thought I'd say this, but thank God I'm a werewolf.”

“Fuck you, Furball.”

JC moved back, one finger tapping his chin as he settled back into the seat cushion. His expression wasn't nearly as amused as it had been, mostly that familiar Gallic mask he usually wore around the minions. “Unfortunately,” He began, the word dragged as though he were trying to remember proper pronunciation. “I am little help in this matter, Ma Petite. My own history of resolving unwelcome admirers is rather... unsatisfactory. If you insist on retaining the position of Nimir-Ra?”

“It 'tis the Necromonger way.” I sighed, slipping into a shitty, vaguely British accent with a dismissive wave.

We continued the drive to our hotel in quiet contemplation. The leaders of their own respective groups, and they were no help. I guess I _could_ be an abusive asshole, but Nathaniel wasn't aggressive and had more issues than _I'd_ had at his age. He wasn't like Elizabeth who pushed boundaries and challenged my right to even breathe until I _gravitas_ 'd her face into the dirt and threatened harassment charges. He wasn't Zane, who was mature enough to take care of himself but didn't have the self control to _not_ eat my pet fish.

“You think too much, Ma Petite.” I tried to turn back around, fought with my seatbelt before giving up, and craned my neck instead. Jean-Claude was holding out little triangles of bread and meat secured in saran wrap. Had he picked these up at the gas-station so me an Richard could have road-trip snacks? I took one and began pulling off the plastic.

That tiny smile was back on the vampire's face as I did so.

“Eat, and let us enjoy the journey. For this weekend we are neither Nimir-Ra, Ulfric,” here he inclined his head toward Richard. “Or Master of the City. We simply... are.”

I bit into the sandwich. Flavors exploded in my mouth. Contrasting textures danced on my tongue. I chewed, carefully. Stars and Fucking Stones. I swallowed, and stretched to stare at JC as he sighed, boneless, luxuriating in the backseat.

“You didn't get this from a gas station.”

“No.”

“You paired ham and swiss with fried noodles and _apples_.” I took another bite. It was delicious. “I don't even know what this sauce is.”

Richard thrust his empty hand at my face, and I didn't take a genius to figure out what he wanted. I unwrapped a second triangle of unholy delight and placed it in his palm.

I took solace in the fact that while I may have made indecent sounds, at least they didn't resemble that of a squealing fangirl.

* * *

Richard slipped the keycard into the lock, waited for the light to turn green, and then turned the handle of their hotel room door. Jean-Claude wheeled in the cart with their bags, his own room key safe in the back pocket of his jeans. Harry did not have a room key, and from the mild exasperation Richard could feel like a phantom limb she was still the climbing five flights of stairs to their floor. When he'd first met her he had thought Harry's aversion to cellphones and insistence on paying in cash or check cute, if old-fashioned. Then he learned that credit cards in her wallet would stop working within a month, faster if they were chipped, and the pager she kept in a small lead box was for emergencies only and the only mobile communication device that wouldn't have a heart attack every time she experienced a little road rage.

Richard had never heard of an animator or witch with such a quirk. Then again, Harry was the first he'd heard of who tossed around the sheer level of raw power that didn't require a ritual or sacrifice to generate. Privately the Ulfric suspected Harry's inability to utilize modern amenities was karma. If she insisted on bending the laws of physics over her knee and spanking them into submission it was inevitable the cosmos would have its revenge in one way or another.

“I confess I am surprised, mon loup.” Jean-Claude commented as he walked the room, running a finger over the back of a sectional. “I was expecting something smaller. I would not think a suite such as this would be available on a teacher's salary.”

“It isn't.” Richard agreed. “It is, however, on an Ulfric's salary.”

Jean-Claude quirked an eyebrow as he fell onto the bed closest to the entrance, claiming it. “I would not have thought you would have continued the tithe. You used to hate it.”

“When it was blown on stupid things, yeah. And the property taxes for the Lupanar still need to be paid, somehow. I can't exactly put down 'werewolves' for a livestock exemption.”

Jean-Claude's muffled laughed went unappreciated as Ricard received a hazy mental image of Jason with a cowbell hung around his neck lazing about a pasture. Rolling his eyes, Richard went back to sorting out the bags. It wasn't like the vampire had to deal with pack paperwork. He had, what, thirty? Maybe fifty vampires sworn to him at most? The Church of Eternal life didn't count.

Richard had a little under five hundred werewolves in St. Louis he was ultimately responsible for. It used be nearly six hundred, but he'd been sure to make certain elements unwelcome. A weekend away was welcome. He was very nearly ready to snap at the next lupa candidate and declare himself Ulfric – Alone. JC didn't need a mate to be legitimate. Harry wasn't even looking, and would probably knee any Nimir-Raj that nominated himself in the balls.

As if summoned, Harry's familiar bundle of sparking energy arrived at the door. Knuckles rapped out a beat that was not a shave and a haircut. Richard kicked his duffle under the far bed and moved to the door. He opened it a crack, and stood with hand on hip. “What are you, a woodpecker?”

Harry crossed her arms. “You did this on purpose. Didn't you. Dick.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.” Richard lied. He could have gotten a different room, but this one had fluffy pillow, chocolates, and a kitchenette! It wasn't his fault it was the only presidential suite still available.

Harry brushed past him, and the way she moved never failed to amuse him. Body language was a werewolf's bread and butter, and even if the ruling human side was hopeless at reading people over the years even the weakest shape shifter learned to take heed of instincts of the animal. She had confused him first, intrigued him, but Harry's soul told the story her carriage only hinted at.

She stopped in the wide doorway separating sleeping quarters from everything else, staff thumping on the carpet, and stared. “There are two beds.”

“Oui.” Jean-Claude had toned down his amusement. He sprawled, clutching a down pillow to his chest.

“The couch folds out.”

“I didn't want the couch.” Harry grumped.

“Then you should have called dibs before we picked.” Richard calmly stated while toeing off his boots. Internally, he debated the utility of turning on the television. He didn't want to be charged for a replacement.

“I had to climb five sets of stairs. Five!”

“It is a pity, Harriet.” Jean-Claude commented, rolling onto his back and sitting up in one smooth, graceful motion. The stream of shared consciousness cut off to a trickle. “But, I shall gladly surrender my bed to the lady. It would be lost on me, anyway.”

“I didn't mean it like that.” Harry frowned. Of course, when Jean-Claude died for the day he wouldn't be able to care if he was on a mattress or a rock.

Jean-Claude shrugged. “I brought my own bedroll, so it is no hardship.”

“Why would...? OH. Oh. Still doesn't seem... fair.” A wrinkle formed between her eyebrows, and her back straightened like a bird puffing her feathers.

Richard crossed his arms, smugly. “I'm not taking the couch. _I'm_ paying.”

That cute little wrinkle grew, Harry's cheeks plumping as her mouth pressed into a line. “I said I didn't mind splitting the cost-”

“Or we could act like fucking adults and share.” At Richard's wry comment, Harry's mouth snapped shut with a click as her teeth clashed together. Jean-Claude's face disappeared into the pillow again, his shoulders shaking. It had probably not been the best thing to say. He could see Harry's fingers tensing even if her expression appeared unware of her bodies' preparations. “I went ahead and paid the pet fee.”

He knew the Nimir-Ra allowed her cats to sleep with her, even if there was a strict no-skin policy in the bed. But he wouldn't force it: one of them could take the couch, and if it was Harry she'd likely take over the entire living room as well. And break the TV simply from prolonged proximity. Or spite.

His beast wouldn't mind the company, though. An Ulfric couldn't just nap with anyone, and he'd already had to dissuade two women of their delusions of Lupa simply because they'd been in the same bed as him. Well, he'd had Shang-Da dissuade them. Quietly.

Maybe Jamil was right and he was too naïve.

“Alright.” Harry sighed. “But if you start sniffing my butt we will have _words_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rushed the end a bit, wanted to get this chapter out today and my afternoon is full of cleaning in prep for guests. Next time we will finally see the costumes and get to the Fair!


	3. Catwalk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is a bathroom hog, and Harry forgets he has money.

My day started shortly before eleven, my sleep-drunk brain trying and failing to remember if there was anything important I needed to do. My toe twitched, the cold divot in the memory foam a conspicuous absence of werewolf, and I attempted to hide under the pillow only to knock the back of my skull into the shortened baseball bat that was my blasting rod. I didn't usually sleep with it under the pillow for fear of accidently setting it off in my sleep, my precision with flames still needed some work, but I also usually had the comfortable background humming of protective wards that no hotel could hope to provide.

I didn't _think_ anything untoward would happen on our little vacation, but then I hadn't expected zombies to break down the door of my previous apartment, either.

Shows what I know, right?

I ended up literally rolling out of bed while rubbing at the sore spot where skull had met ash. The curtains were drawn, but enough sunlight managed to sneak around the edges to suffuse the bedroom with a gray half light. It was enough to navigate by, mostly, and I only stubbed my toe once as I passed Jean-Claude's sleeping corpse while following the scent of breakfast tacos and salsa.

Richard was missing. I didn't care. His wallet was on the kitchen counter by the bag of tacos, which I promptly claimed whole cloth -the tacos, not the wallet- on the logic that if he wanted any of them he would have taken them with him, wherever. I then promptly hugged my new friends to my chest and headed to the bathroom and the gloriously large tub I'd spotted the night before. The ectoplasm that accompanied Richard's beast into the world had long since evaporated into nothing, but I ran the shower for a few minutes anyway.

My first experience of a therithrope transformation in all its gooey glory was not a good one. If you've ever been showered in ectoplasm, then you know it doesn't matter if it vanishes later – the memory of the tacky substance and accompanying smell _haunts_. It is blood and pain, it is the explosive afterbirth of a spiritual creature assuming physical form with a human body serving as the gateway. Beautiful and terrifying and something that should never been seen with the third eye open.

Trust me.

While steam purified the bathroom, I snagged a cup of coffee and a paperback someone had thoughtfully shoved into my suitcase. There was plaid on the cracked spine.

“Fuck it.”

Me, my tacos, and my suspicious romance novel spent the next four and a half hours enjoying a large and distant industrial water heater. I used every last one of the complimentary bath bombs, smiling in amusement as stupendously hot water fizzed and the room filled with the scent of flowers. I had a bath back home but with three, sometimes four, housemates hot water was a commodity even when the damn thing was working. _This_ bathtub, in _this_ wondrous masterpiece of bathing chamber, was large enough I could all but lay down if I so wished. The end opposite the spigot sloped so I could comfortably lean back. I did.

Book in one hand and taco in the other, I ignored Richard's return and the sound of the television coming on. I ignored his entreaties to come out so he could pee in favor of pulling the shower curtain closed and informing him the door was unlocked. It wasn't until I was more raisin than human that I reluctantly left the water and wrapped myself in a towel that was fluffier than Toot's hair.

With such a day in mind, I tried not to get annoyed at how long Richard and Jean-Claude were taking to get ready for the faire. Sequestered as the two men were, I could only wonder at what, exactly, could take so much time. My dress was high necked in a deep blue, black in certain lighting, with a field of what I severely hoped was shaped glass and not small diamonds starting at my right hip. The glittering glass and pearls wrapped around my back and ended in a small galaxy around my left breast. I wore my pentacle out, I felt a little naked without it, and my mother's heritage hung suspended in the stars of the dress like Sol holding court.

The dress itself was slit up the left side to mid-thigh, though this was mitigated by the matching hooded cloak pinned shut by the moon broach at my right shoulder. From the accessories available, I had selected two belts that had enough roomy pouches to make a kangaroo jealous. A bevy of bangles and bracelets decorated both arms and every movement made them clink amusingly.

Since JC and Richard had taken over the bathroom I'd had to apply my, uh, _glamour_ sans mirror. Perched on the arm of the couch, I stashed a tube of lip gloss in one of the pouches on my boot -even my boots had little pouches!- as I listened to the evening news. The weather lady was a vampire. She couldn't have been dead very long as she smiled a little too wide, the points of her fangs flashing, but that might have been her gimmick. Her top was certainly sheer enough to distract from her teeth, but not her dimples. Clear skies tonight, at least.

Tapping my foot on the ground, I considered the merits of pounding my fist on the bathroom door when I felt the vampire in the periphery of my bored senses move. JC had become a familiar presence to my magic, and usually faded into the background like the whispers of a whirling ceiling fan, but I was keyed up, ready to go, and alert for any change. I hopped off the couch and turned, smirk on my face and quip about primping on my lips, when the vampire in the room caught my tongue as sure as any cat.

My mouth sagged open a bit, and beneath the shadows of my hood my cheeks warmed as something low in my body tingled. I swallowed down my complaints. It was obvious why they had taken so long.

Dude looked like a lady.

“Ma Petite? Are you well?” Jean-Claude's question was asked in a breathy voice that I wouldn't call lady-like, but by no means was it masculine. His hair had been twisted into a series of braids atop his head, pearls pinned throughout, with a few loose locks spiraling tastefully down his neck.

“Fine! Just peachy! You look, good.” Beautiful. He'd even used the miracle that was modern make-up to take some of the bite out of his cheekbones and give his whole face a softer, girlish cast.

He smiled at me, demure instead of sultry or amused. He had a little embroidered purse dangling from one lace- draped wrist and held a thin stick attached to a mask between slender, polished fingers. I stamped down the urge to offer my arm, thankful for my boots of much holding.

Jean-Claude is an incubus.

Jean-Claude is a mother fucking incubus.

Sometimes, it was hard to remember that. Vampires here and the vampires I'd grown up knowing about and fighting were very different beasts. Specifically, the succubi/incubi for all their focus on beauty and seduction went about it drastically different. My half-brother, Thomas, is an incubus of the White Court. He can melt a nun's panties at twenty paces and is built like a Greek statue wishes it was. To say he feeds off of lust is an oversimplification of what he does, but is accurate. Thomas and his entire family are beauty incarnate, inhumanly so when they really get going, and at times so subtle you don't know what is happening until their lips are on your throat and all you can think about is chasing the next orgasm while they eat your life force.

Jean-Claude fed off the sexually charged energy he _generated_ within others not unlike one of the darker, kinkier rituals I'd once witnessed a sorcerer use. You could get addicted, but you couldn't die from it unless it was from exhaustion. He was of Belle Morte's line, which meant he was picked for beauty, but it was a human grace that shaped the curve of lips and blue of his eyes. Belle's power could only improve what was already there, and no magic on earth could take a pile of shit and make it taste like chocolate.

The vampire was flawed enough he slipped past years of mental defenses built on the assumption that everything too pretty to be human was going to try to kill me. He stepped lightly, the lace edges of his voluminous gown raised just enough for the tips of his buckled heels to peek at me like the blushing maiden he was pretending to be. The silk sleeves left his shoulders bare but for the thin, tasseled, white shawl wrapped around them. A gold ribbon that matched the center pane of his dress concealed his Adams apple, and an emerald the size of my thumb nail dangled from it.

He raised the slip of a mask to his eyes. It did nothing to conceal his identity.

“I am glad you approve, sucré _sorcière_.” He spoke in that same light, breathy tone but the last word was dragged out as my stomach filled with butterflies. Drunk butterflies. “You yourself look... as lovely as a star.”

Richard exited the bathroom behind him, flicking off the light as he went, and the werewolf was thankfully not wearing a dress. I basked in his blatant masculinity for a moment, reassured that I felt no desire to bone the brunette man, and took up my staff.

“...thanks, JC. But you did pretty much pick this out.”

He crossed his arms. Shiny, plump, pink lips pursed in a pout. “It was an option, one of many... though, I do not remember sending you that yellow monstrosity on your arm.”

I glanced at the cheap, two inch wide blown glass bangle on my wrist. Bumps of white and black stood out like irregular, googly eyes. “I like it. So nyaaah.”

“Ladies!” Richard clapped his hands over his head, giving me a good view of his own costume as his own cloak was forced back. I pulled my tongue back into my mouth. Richard wore leather breaches, strips woven together resembling a basket of flesh. Furred boots complementing his fur lined cloak cut off just below his knees.

Richard wore a light tunic the off white of unbleached flour under a heavy oiled vest decorated in scrolling knot work. A brass, or maybe copper, pendent hung from another leather cord around his neck. The pendent, a silhouette of a howling wolf, matched the heavy belt buckle at his waist. Pouches.

Two small braids, one on either side of his head, came together in the back to hold his bangs out of his eyes.

He arched one eyebrow and held the door open, the hotel hallway beyond tellingly empty. “If you are done debating the prettiest princess...?”

* * *

They parked a good distance from the gates, but then that was standard when the parking lot was basically an empty field given order by trenches dug in yesteryear. Broken rocks slushed where puddles hadn't evaporated, and as a result Richard witnessed the single most ridiculous waste of power he'd ever seen.

“Since when could you fly?” Richard asked, expression twisting into mixed shock and amusement as he stood beside Harry. When Jean-Claude had requested his assistance in dressing for the evening he'd claimed he wasn't dressed as a woman, but as a man pretending to be a woman as was right and proper and traditional for a _masqué_. Such a technicality didn't change the fact that his period gown of embroidered silk and lace trim was long enough to drag in the mud they'd parked next to, and so he used his fucking vampire powers that he did not formerly have to fly over it.

“It's just hovering.” Harry muttered, digging the end of her staff into a tuft of grass as the headlights of another arrival passed in the row behind them. “It isn't that impressive.”

Jean-Claude's happiness was a brilliant flare in Richard's awareness, and was just as short lived as the vampire tamped back down on the bonds. Harry's eyes were mostly concealed by the combination of her hood and the strip of blue eyeshadow she'd painted across them like a mask, but he could still see the irritated twist of her lips clearly. It was a brief thing though, a bug bite, and quickly washed away by the joy and anticipation that bubbled just under her skin.

She was probably jealous that she couldn't fly. Or thinking how hard it would be to hit a swooping target.

Could be either.

Jean-Claude touched back to earth, one hand carefully pulling up and raising his dress. Arm in arm, they followed behind Harry. The necromancer, wizard, whatever paved the way, and it was clear to Richard every forceful step was an aborted skip. He could imagine the litany running through Harry's head: Wizards do not skip. Wizards are dignified, they do not skip to the fair like little girls.

“Mmm.” Jean-Claude hummed, leaning a bit closer than necessary. The vampire's head swiveled, eyes wide as though he could drink the world through his pupils. It was a steady, if sparser than Richard would have expected, crowd making their way to the entrance. There were more costumed individuals than not. “That woman's bra is made of _chainmail_.”

“Yup. Pretty standard for this place. Not like a vampire afraid of puddles.”

Said vampire rolled his eyes. “The marks, mon loup, the marks. As one grows in power, so do we all. Have you not noticed?”

Truthfully, Richard hadn't tried to do anything aside from his usual. He gave a one shouldered shrug. Something to experiment with – later. He grinned then, noticing Harry had gotten side tracked by a group that was leaving, a couple and two children half asleep in the wagon they dragged behind them. Crouched low, Harry held her pentacle out near the children and a soft glow suffused the silver.

Jean-Claude held Richard back, his light touch transforming to steel as the two watched. The kids clapped, giggled, and Harry reached toward the smallest elf's ear and removed a coin that promptly began flashing around her be-ringed fingers. That, Richard knew, took skill that had nothing to do with power level. When the pentacle fell back to rest against Harry's chest once more, Jean-Claude proceeded forward.

By now even the parents were smiling, and as the Lady Elf tucked prosthetic ears in a snap-case her Lord rummaged through one of the bags on the wagon and removed a booklet. He offered it to the wizard with a flourish.

“A small favor for a small favor, fair mortal.” The man's gray eyes shone with mirth.

Harry tucked one foot behind the other in a half-curtsy. “The debt is repaid. Entertainment for entertainment.”

“You should really do birthday parties.” The Lady spoke up, happy wrinkles around tired eyes. “That was even better than Mikeal's Marvels. We saw it today, but he was less about skill and more about jokes when he failed the trick.”

Harry shook her head. “Nah. I'm not a performer. I'm a practitioner. But thanks again! Have a good night!”

“You too! Make sure to gobble the King's Nuts!”

“Sam!” The woman spun to smack her husband on the arm, but the man was already fleeing, trailing laughter and the little wagon with his squealing children behind him. The woman hiked her skirts and gave chase.

“Ma Petite?” Jean-Claude questioned as Harry fell into step with them, flipping open her new book. She removed a marker from one of the many, many pouches at her waist and began circling things, somehow juggling marker, staff, and book without missing a step. She held the cover up, explaining.

“Program Book. Looks like we missed the Raptor Show, that's only during the day, but they got a special Whiskey With the Queen... damn. Gotta buy separate tickets ahead of time for that.”

She flipped a page, not looking up even as she surrendered her faire ticket to be ripped and passed under the arching gateway into the festival proper. It was far better lit than the parking area, which mostly had the moon to see by with the odd lamp bolted to a half dead tree. Another paragraph was circled.

Jean-Claude raised his mask to his face and gave the entrance guard an obvious look over. Dressed in fur and chain, the man was nothing but muscle and quiet menace as he stood with feet spread and sword planted in the earth. Richard watched in amusement as the vampire circled the unmoving, expressionless man, tapped his chin in thought, and then pulled on the drawstrings of his purse to slip a twenty amongst the many other bills stuffed in the man's belt and arm bands.

Richard's ears picked up the shuffle of feet and he turned his head to see a camera wielding Tinker-Bell fail miserably to get Harry's attention. He took pity on the teenager. “Miss?”

“Sir!” Tinker-Bell looked relieved. She raised her camera on a stick hopefully. Glitter on her cheeks sparkled in the brilliant yellow bulbs strung above them like mad tinsel. “Prithee, would thoust like an image to memorialize this festive night?”

“Indeed, my lady. I would.” Richard sent a gentle knock back along the bond that tied him to Jean-Claude even as he snatched the marker from Harry's hands and tucked it behind her ear. She squawked, and a lightbulb above them flickered dangerously, but then grinned and stabbed her finger at a page labeled _Special Ongoing Event – Ages 21 and Up_.

“Would you like to stand with our Barbarian or...?” Tinker-Bell twirled, and the bells on the tip of her wings jingled pleasantly.

Jean-Claude slid in next to the photographer, affecting his 'totes a lady' voice as Richard liked to think of it. “Perhaps over by that fountain? Ma _chère?_ _”_

“Certainly, Madame!”

They trekked across the green hill, past the kiosk that sold little fans, water bottles, and program books that didn't have greasy toddler fingerprints on them. The fountain was empty but for collected rain water, but the stone was white and cold and old and wouldn't have looked out of place in any castle. Richard brushed a few leaves off the edge and sat facing the camera.

He honestly intended to do nothing but sit with Harry and Jean-Claude and smile the vague pleasant smile everyone gives when told to say cheese. Then Harry plopped down on his left, Jean-Claude on his right, each twining an arm around his in a gesture that was as intimate as it was proprietary. Harry had pushed her hood down to reveal hair locked in wet looking waves, smiling face exposed. Mischief lit in his chest, and Richard widened the spread of his legs as Jean-Claude placed a hand on his inner thigh. The werewolf summoned the most smug, insufferable, leering expression he possibly could.

The flashbulb went off. Colors danced before his eyes as Harry suddenly collapsed in a fit of laughter. Her head fell forward as she clutched at her stomach and the camera went off again. Richard joined her. Jean-Claude didn't laugh, didn't giggle, but his eyes glowed behind his mask as his lips twitched into a pleasant smile as he watched the two of them fall over each other.

Tinker-Bell's nervousness had gone as if it never was as she handed Richard the ticket that would let him pick up the pictures when they left. She sauntered off, and the wolf king hummed to himself as a plan began to unfold in his mind. Harry grabbed his hand and was dragging him toward the Plucky Duck Pub.

If Jean-Claude could use rumors to secure his own powerbase in the eyes of the vampires, Richard could use them to make himself look like a hedonistic asshole already in a satisfying relationship. After all, Harry wasn't a werewolf and was therefore disqualified from Lupa – in fact she held no beast whatsoever despite being Nimir-Ra- and no bitch was stupid enough to try and steal the infamous pyromaniac's boyfriend.

And maybe his mom would stop asking when he was going to bring that nice Anita girl to visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JC is actually being really sneaky. If you can guess what he has been doing you get an internet cookie.  
> Richard is kinda oblivious to it, as it doesn't effect him at all.
> 
> Also I am greatly amused by JC considering Nathaniel his greatest romantic rival and taking steps to stop him. Poor Nate. He has no comprehension of the wasp nest he accidentally poked.


	4. Werewolves and Windwhere?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard is determined to be a happy puppy, and Harry is a cheating cheater. Also, surprise guest appearance!

They moved through the crowd of festival goers like a pair of rocks swimming upstream. Harry led with her staff, the rune etched wood an impromptu lance, the quickness and sureness of her steps at odds with her appearance. There was an energy in her, in the people, and in the air. Richard almost missed it, but there was waft of charged, lingering peppermint that caught his beast's attention, drawing it out. Now that he was aware, wakefulness settling behind his eyes, the only thing he could think to compare it to was the Lupanar as the pack waited for moonrise.

Richard's beast rolled happily in the den of his heart, the sting of Harry's rings nothing but an extra spice in the experience.

Harry's fingers were covered in rings, more so than usual, but they weren't the gouche pile of gem studded gold a leader of weres or whores might be expected to display. Wealth was just another form of power, and it was one Raina had enjoyed even if Marcus eschewed overt displays. Harry was the very opposite, in all ways, and it was a cruel capricious god that made her. All the good ones were either gay or taken.

Amusement bubbled up behind him. Jean-Claude brought up their rear, hands lifting his skirt as his eyes skipped over women in velvet and men in leggings, and his masculine voice whispered through Richard's head. “You lack imagination.”

Harry mounted the single step that kept the seasonal shack out of the mud with the air of a conqueror. Her hand released Richard's wrist, fingertips trailing static along his skin, and she headed to a little window set above a tray of forms. As Ulfric drifted to the bar wood creaked beneath his weight. The Plucky Duck was a step above the tents and hastily constructed showrooms that made up the majority of the Renaissance Festival, but being so exposed to the elements for most of the year that was all it was.

Still, as he ordered the first thing on the menu that wasn't Budwiser Richard figured as long as he didn't jump up and down like a hyperactive three year old everything would be fine. As if mocking his thoughts, a five foot three hyperactive three year old nearly ran him over in her haste to present the barkeep with her completed participation form. Wizard and wolf danced around each other before Harry slipped between a pair of kilted men while Richard arched forward to protect his drink, liquid sloshing out and splashing on the wooden planks.

Jean-Claude twirled his mask like a wand as he crossed the room to join Harry at the bar. He couldn't drink, or eat, but he could taste through his human servant. A thought occurred: as a Triumvirate they shared power and thoughts, could Jean-Claude share his senses as well? It wasn't the way a vampire and animal-to-call bond usually functioned, but then most didn't have an animator to bridge the disparity between the magics of life and death.

Richard drank his beer, thinking, swishing the golden liquid around to clear the phantom taste of blood with a chaser of honey tones and citrus.

He leaned against a wood post supporting the patio of The Plucky Duck to watch the flood of people, and it was clear the mood of the festivities changed just so with each exit. With the completion of the Ceremony of Lights the day revelers had seen all they came to see and had nothing but a long drive ahead. A troop of college kids that he could have sworn he'd once taught stumbled into view with the lone, sober wolf among them rolling his eyes.

Oh, Hell's Fucking Bells.

The kid, maybe one of his, maybe not, went as pale as the undead when their gazes caught. His body seized, human fighting beast in a quest for proper protocol, but his friends kept him moving with little tugs and laughs. Ears pricked and heart sinking, Richard filtered out shuffling feet, groans about the chill, and caught the tail end of ... _you spooked, Jimbo? You look like you saw a ghost. Or Walker's mom. Naked._

_Fuck you, Tommy. When we get to the car, I'm beating your ass. Peace-binds won't protect you there._

_Here that, boys and boys?! We got a da-da-da-duel!_

The other werewolf tilted his head to the side, nothing obvious from an outsider's view, but it was deliberate enough. Richard gave a closed-mouth smile and raised his glass to the boy, who grinned in relief and slung an arm around the shoulder of the only collegiate remaining that wasn't swearing drunken vengeance.

Watching them trip out the gates, Richard pressed the plastic cup of his beer against the pale side of his wrist, sliding it along the irritated flesh. Richard's mood abruptly lifted as the faint chime of bells drifted over the wind, bringing with it the scent of sweat and sticky-sweet perfume. That combination could only mean one thing: belly dancers. Behind him the vampire and his executioner kept arguing over which microbrew to kill. The feel of their energy, spiking and falling with each verbal jab, was oddly relaxing. Probably why monks liked to meditate under waterfalls.

“Mon loup?” The words didn't touch his ears, but an invisible hand did, scratching behind his ear in a way that should have left any King indignant but only caused his beast to pant happily. The traitor.

Turning away from his observations of the crowd, Richard didn't need to glance at the clear plastic of Harry's cup to know who won. The woman was not a wine drinker, and never would be, but already the vampire was formulating other plans. He was too smug after loosing the argument, fluttering eyelashes at the serving wench. Watching his two bond-mates now all Richard could see, even with the dress, was Jean-Claude as he had first met him; seventh from the top and about as much weight in his own social circles as the werewolf himself had possessed at the time.

Big enough to be a threat, but without the support or raw power to be envied or done away with. One could do what they liked without backtalk from the betas, and as long as the activities didn't interfere with the other alphas none of _them_ would give a shit. For Richard, it had been a comfortable spot.

Too comfortable; it'd made him complacent.

And then someone started killing all the Master Vampires, and it was torture and tenterhooks all around.

Harry cradled her beer to her chest with her forearm while folding up her now stamped form. Into a pouch at her waist it went, the dedicated coin purse beside it jingling at the disturbance. Jean-Claude held her staff while she checked over her things, his free hand a light, guiding pressure at her back. Already, she'd chugged half her drink in stubborn defiance of Jean-Claude's request to savor it. Rings of silver and braided gold glinted as small bugs rammed warning into the lightbulbs above them.

Richard had once witnessed a punch from those rings pulp bone. His beast rolled over in his chest, tail wagging at the thought. The finest things in life, right?

“Maybe you should slow down.” Richard commented. Jean-Claude's pet name for her was incredibly accurate, and she wasn't exactly known as a party girl. A thread of concern and a murky memory confirmed that Dead Dave had never seen her drink more than a single bottle of ale, and that was only recently. Used to be she'd order a screwdriver, hold the vodka. Richard could understand that, with the Council and all, and sometimes wished shifter metabolism would let him drink and color the world in a pleasant buzz. “Don't you still have to go through another twelve glasses to get the tankard?”

“Yes.” Harry's tongue flashed out to swipe some of the foam from the corner of her mouth. “But I have to finish it on the premises, or it doesn't count. That's the rules. They are very strict about their rules. Don't want people cheating by dumping the booze in a bush.”

“You could just buy yourself one.” Richard gestured to a booth that had several polished, wooden mugs hanging on display.

Harry stared up at him, simple joy melting from her face until it was as much a cold void as Jean-Claude's could be. “Thems fight'n words, boy.”

Her eyebrows then waggled ridiculously, ruining the effect. Following that line of thought, Richard peered past a crack in the row of stalls to spot a clearing guarded by a pair of villagers with padded staves.

“So long as I do not miss the dance.” Their vampire huffed as he literally waltzed past them, into the street, and over to a large tent that was seemingly supported by nothing but pillars of piled masks and hats from every time period imaginable.

* * *

 This would be so much easier, I thought, if I could just hit him in his smug stupid face. The log we were both fighting over was a good deal wider than a balance beam, but that didn't mean much to my boots as they tried to negotiate the curved, flaking surface. I had more experience at fighting with a staff than Richard, but he had preternatural balance and the extra weight at the ends of the practice weapons weren't throwing him off nearly as much as me.

I'm a bit rusty, I'll admit. But, the one dojo I'd gone to after receiving a membership renewal notification had made it quite clear to me that I'd been a spoiled wizard. They were good guys there, but none were national champions. None were Murphy's level. I'd stayed for a few weeks to help me acclimatize to my new dimensions but that was it. Fighting people who at most expected to take down a vanilla mugger wasn't going to help me practice for the things that were trying to eat my face off.

Jogging with Ronnie was more useful in that regard.

But it still left me floundering when my goal wasn't to kill my opponent. And I couldn't even hit him in the head! Facial blows were restricted, on pain of being kicked out of the Festival!

I stepped forward, closing, jabbing the padded end of my weapon at his chest like a spear. Richard's eyes widened, white all around, and instinct had him falling backward off the log to get away. Victory, like a soap bubble, was short lived.

“Motherfucker!” I cried as the wolf king snapped out a hand to grasp my staff, nearly pulling me off my feet as he leveraged his mass against me. I had to dig my heels in, bark peeling dangerously beneath them, and wrenched the pole back. He trailed just behind it and swung his own staff like a tennis racket and I was the ball. I yelped and dropped to my stomach, thanking past-Harry for the foresight to leave my cloak on the fence in preparation for the match. Richard's staff swished through empty air above me while his own feet stumbled back a pace.

Grinning, teeth white, he spun a staff in each hand and struck a pose.

Son of a bitch.

“You have fought well, fair maid, but perhaps it is time to yield?” Richard questioned, and I was very, very aware of the crowd that had gathered since the fight had begun.

My cheeks heated as I looked up at him. The way he'd recovered from my attack – that wasn't plebian. That was experience. Did Richard have a place he trained at? A shifter-friendly gym? To be honest, the question of where he goes to punch people never came up in conversation.  Part of me just assumed it was natural, like the lycanthropes back home. “Pretty sure dual wielding is against the rules.”

“Does that mean you give up?”

“Do I look like a fat lady to you?” I growled, and before I could stop and assess what I was doing familiar words rumbled out of my mouth. Huddled as I was on the log, I had far greater stability than my smart ass opponent when the miniature cyclone kicked up. I squeezed my eyes shut to protect them from the dirt, straw, and generously called pebbles that careened around and against us as my spell spun out. A few watchers screamed, happy screams I hoped, and when I opened my eyes again one of the practice staves was in a tree, and the other was being held fast by Jean-Claude.

The vampire slowly lowered his arm, a look of disapproval on his face as he brought the weapon down from where he'd stopped it from plowing into a group of finely dressed ladies.  Not a strand of his perfectly arranged hair was out of place.

“Well.” Richard's was a mess. He crossed his arms, and I immediately felt like the kid that had been caught eating during class. “Now neither of us has a stick. I hope you're happy.”

My reply was a piss-pour leg sweep that had his ass touch the dirt a bare second before mine. I stuck my tongue out at him from my side of the log, legs tangled in the rich dark fabric of my split skirt. Someone wolf-whistled.

“You know,” One of the villagers that ran the log-game spoke up as he helped me to my feet. I started shaking dirt from my dress. The material was surprising resistant to mess, shedding dust like dark snow. “I honestly can't say who won that match. He had you dead-to-rights, but then you pulled some shit out of your ass... does that count as a weapon? Will? What say you?”

The second villager, William of the Magnificent Beard, shrugged. “Wind is wind. But technically, he won. Only supposed to make contact with the staves we give you. Not body parts.”

“Oh, come on!” I picked a dead leaf from Richard's hair as we were escorted out of the sparring yard. Jean-Claude was waiting for us, perched on the little wooden fence where guarded our cloaks as well as a little circle of admirers he'd picked up.  Though the later were drifting away with the conclusion of our match, I spotted at least one slip a crumpled receipt into his palm before rushing to catch up with her group. The flirt even apologized for my 'over-exuberance' while handing back practice staff.  I crossed my arms mulishly, bangles tinkling, and didn't fasten my cloak even after JC settled it around my shoulders.  The activity had warmed my muscles and the night air was a comfortable chill. “What were we supposed to do? Glare at each other?”

“Maybe. Until one of you needed to piss and so surrendered.” The voice that answered me didn't belong to either Will, his buddy, JC, or Lord Furball. I still recognized it, though it had been months since I'd heard it. The press of people thinned and I saw a tall man in a half-mask that wasn't as fake as one might expect. Even without my command over the dead I'd enough experience with human bone to recognize that not-quite-ivory luster anywhere.

My grin threatened to split my face in two.

“Kincaid!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back to being GM for my group, so while attempting to plot out my player's next adventure much of my writing time has been halved. If you want to tell them to stop using the Runemaster/Seer's RAW power to time travel and forcing me to rewrite whole townships and dungeons I would appreciate it. Also, setting things on fire. Harry Dresden can be a pyro. That's natural. Causing a city wide zombie outbreak only cured by a city wide fire and blaming the butler's guild is not.
> 
> (But it is amusing. It's hard to say no when I'm being bribed with deep-friend c.chip cookies and beer. Also, the Pirate player tossed everything in Charisma. OP like wow.)


	5. Shopping and Shows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is a Happy Drunk. Kincaid is just along for the ride. Richard feels like the only adult in the room. JC continues to be JC.

With a hop, skip, and a jump I quickly crossed the lane to put myself in spitting distance of the man known as Death.

“It's Ed-umpgh!” Cheek pressed against his chest, I issued the female version of a manly test of wills. Such cleverly disguised the light search I performed as my arms squeezed. Underneath a thick layer of Old Spice I picked up the scent that had become uniquely Kincaid. Sulfur and smoke. Given the right incentive, and it would have to be a considerable incentive, he would kill me.

He was, arguably, my oldest friend. Chances were I'd never see Bob, Murphy, Michael, Georgia, Ramirez, or even Hendricks again. But I could buy Kincaid a beer and together we could _remember_ them. He would remember them long after I'd finally done something stupid enough to get me planted six feet under.

It wouldn't be personal. Just a job. He was a decent enough man that in all likelihood I wouldn't even see the bullet coming.

I beamed up at him. Though the dark, billowy material of his shirt my hands brushed against a spine sheath that went beyond legal limit while staying just under machete proportions. “You have more alias' than I have enemies. Shush.”

I felt more than heard a snort at my ear. Humor echoed in my mind, the barest impression like a dragonfly lifting off a still pond, ripples in its absence, and I was suddenly reminded of just how many warrants I had executed in my few years here. Richard's nickname was eerily accurate. Where Kincaid got in and got out and got on with life, no one the wiser, I tended to leave a trail of bullet ridden and burnt bodies anyone with eyes could follow.

My mercenary pulled one arm free and bopped me in the face with a top hat. I uttered nonsense and recoiled, straight into Jean-Claude's arms, the vampire holding me by the shoulders as he tutted and adjusted my slipping cloak.

“Hands, Harry.” Kincaid said with a slow, southern drawl. Eyes like clouded ice lingered briefly on the glittering field of my chest before sliding down to my envy inducing boots. His mouth quirked into a one sided smirk below the bone of his mask. “If you wanted me to give your bits a proper test drive you need only ask.”

“Oh, god. No.” I gave a full body shudder, clutching at my arms as I did so.

Jean-Claude stepped up like a silken wall, left arm lingering along the line of my shoulders while his right drifted forward. His nails shone with a clear polish in the yellow light as he proffered his hand with a shadowed gaze. I could feel the lack of movement in his chest as he spoke, once again breathy. “Monsieur de Mort.”

Wearing black-on-black, the mercenary resembled something of a cross between Dread Pirate Roberts and Baron Samedi. Kincaid flipped his top hat in the air and it settled on his head, his gloved fingers running along the brim in one smooth motion before continuing on to take JC's and breathe a kiss on the manicured fingers. “A pleasure to meet you at last, Madame... Beaumont?”

“You are a student of history, Monsieur.” Jean-Claude's surprise was plain, and pleased. I exchanged confused looks with Richard, who had acquired a victory pretzel and was maintaining enough distance I couldn't steal it. Though I had something of an Old World education, my focus had been on magical history, and the degrees of both my Ulfric and I had been focused on Preternatural Biology. Mine moreso.

“Not really. I much prefer to make history than live in the past.” Kincaid straightened from his bow and leaned onto his cane. It was a stylish little thing, as black as his clothing with a steel cap on the bottom and a solid chunk of metal as big as my fist at the top. The silver inlay blended with the polished steel perfectly, almost invisible, but the entwining flowers and skulls flickered when the light hit them. I was willing to put money on there being another blade hidden in the cane itself.

I used to have a similar piece, if not so pretty, and the decorative bands near the top were just right for concealing where pommel turned to sheath.

Kincaid's smirk spread to a smile as he tilted his head toward Jean-Claude. “But, as an adventurous sort, I do anything once.”

“So forward, Monsieur?” Jean-Claude released a theatrical gasp, and I rolled my eyes while shrugging free of the vampire's embrace. Kincaid looked more amused than lecherous, his eyes flicking between us before drifting back to the throng shuffling down the lane. Richard started moving, stuffing the last of his pretzel into his mouth, and we followed suit with Kincaid joining our party like a lost Hellhound.

My own eyes meandered around a booth selling original artwork. Paintings of imagined fairies, fanciful animals, and oddly enough seascapes lay displayed on tables and bookshelves. A few works the artist had incorporated found objects into, taking the idea of trompe l'oeil and stomping all over it. I couldn't say why, but this bothered me on a level I can only compare to Han Shot First and I passed the area without stopping, tugging at Richard's sleeve before he could inspect a mermaid's portrait.

JC waved off a merchant offering hair combs and I spun on my heel, walking backwards as I addressed the Man in Black. “Never expected to see you here. This doesn't seem like your scene, Kincaid.”

“Edward, Ah-ni-ta.” Kincaid parried, my nose wrinkling as though I'd smelled something foul rather than heard it. “It really isn't. I'm actually here for business, not pleasure.”

“...please tell me we're saving Princess Buttercup. _Please_.” The only other option was, simply, inconceivable. The Festival was far too public, for one thing. Kincaid laughed and shook his head, poking me in the stomach with his cane until I knocked it aside with my staff and faced front with a sniff of dignity.

“ _We_ are not doing anything. I'm here to make sure no one with a hard on for revenge runs off with Marianne.”

“Ivy's here?!” I shouted happily at the same time Richard questioned, “I thought Verne established a non-aggression pact with the new Master... Serena?”

“ _Marianne_ is. Yes, but he's a traditionalist and paranoid someone with more hurt pride than brains is going to go after his Vargamor. I left her at the Gutenberg demonstration to get a beer – I needed it. If they weren't both seventy I'd be concerned about little literary buff babies.” Kincaid complained. He moved closer to me and whispered so low I could barely pick up on it: “It was strange enough when she was a little girl with all the world on her shoulders, but here? Whole other weird. But a good weird, even if it does have her Ulfric going through the occasional wine barrel.”

I understood what Kincaid meant, even if I couldn't sympathize. Ivy deserved whatever happiness she found, in whatever way it came. The poor kid hadn't even had a name of her own till I'd given her one, and every day since her _birth_ constrained by duty and purpose, viewed as more of a thing than a person. But, if there had ever been an Accords on this Earth I couldn't find any sign of it. Even the Fae were scarce, it being more common to run across a changling than a full blooded sidhe.

Though, to be fair, in a world where _there's a monster under my bed_ might have the very real response of police armed with silver or cold iron bullets I wouldn't be leaving the Nevernever in a hurry, either. Hell, as late as the *1930's a panicked mob burned a witch at the stake. It had been an illegal action, and the ringleaders were imprisoned after, but poor Agnes was still nothing more than a pile of blameless, charred bone.

Kincaid had changed the least of us, but we'd all been molded to fit into the world we now inhabited. For the Archive this meant she'd grown into a wise old woman worthy of holding all that knowledge. But, her spirit was still the same little girl that had been through as close a thing to a living hell as Nicodemus could make. And that little girl had just gotten her very own furry family to support her along with the realization that neutrality is for chumps.

Humanity, fuck yeah.

Kincaid pointed out a water wagon, and the three of us still living queued up for a refresher. The barman stamped my form as I chugged the beer, taste secondary to getting it down as he watched. I coughed when bubbles tickled my throat, and Richard slapped my back hard enough I had to brace myself on a wall or fall over.

Ivy didn't have to worry about maintaining the reputation of the Archive or the attendant plots.

I didn't have the White Council or the Reds pecking at my peace of mind, and if anyone thought I was crazy it was because of something I actually did rather than for simply existing.

Kincaid was, well, he was Kincaid. I think the only thing that bothered him was his inability to access his old bank accounts and security boxes. Centuries of accumulated wealth and shiny objects forever out of reach, all traded for the meager millions a single human life of killing could accomplish.

“That's kinda sad.” I spoke aloud, staring at a cookie jar full of Amaranth. A woman red in a peasant top cut off below her bust was watching me, face blank. A tiny leather pouch on a cord hung around her neck. Was she the proprietor? I blinked at her, my vision swimming for a moment as I saw Susan's face in place of her own. “I'm a government sanctioned assassin and... and I think I'm more stable and happy here than I ever was back home. I don't know how I feel about that.”

* * *

The lights had been dimmed around the Rose Stage as the Flaming Flanders' performed, their lit clubs flying through the air and providing more of show than the daytime crowd usually got. Shadows swirled with every toss, and a particularly menacing tree branch almost looked as though it was trying to snatch a club at every pass. It was entertaining, to be sure, and Stanley Flander kept up a quick and witty commentary as his two assistants -his wife and teen daughter- prepped for the next part of their act.

The last juggling baton hit the apex of its flight and began to dive, flames dancing like bright scarves in the wind, and Stanley caught it behind his back with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. The performer's bald head shone with sweat as he bowed to the applause that exploded. With three fanned out in each hand he bowed once more, crossing his arms over his chest, and this time his family bowed with him. He then promptly surrendered the clubs to the fire retardant blanket Nissa Flanders held open while blowing on his fingers, causing the audience to laugh.

It was entertaining. They were great performers, and as the girl -Karen? _Carolyn_.- cracked a whip made of chain and her parents both shrieked about rebellious, ungrateful brats Richard knew he'd be donating at large tip at the end of the show. But the Flanders' couldn't compete with the show just in front of him.

Harry perched on the very edge of the weathered bleacher, elbows on knees, eyes shining as she watched the performance. It was as though the rest of the world had ceased to matter as her gaze tracked the now fire engulfed whip the youngest Flanders swung about. Harry's enthusiasm was infectious, joy bubbling up from her like a spring and spilling over their bond, carrying with it a flotsam of memories.

Richard sucked in a breath and stilled as his view swam and the world grew around him. His seat was just as hard as before, but there was a roof over the stage where before there had been none, and instead of a family of three a single man in classic magician's garb stood with arms wide.

The vision froze, crystalized, and vanished with a whisper of: “ _M_ _'excuser, Richard._ ”

Jean-Claude was making his way back to them a bit faster than necessary, skirts held in one hand and a Styrofoam bowl in the other. Harry barely reacted until the vampire touched her knees. She startled at the contact, then shifted away to make room, the unladylike pose gone as she drew her legs together.

“Ma Petite. I have something for you...” Jean-Claude whispered, mindful of the crowd, leaning in close and brushing shoulders with the distracted wizard.

“They're really good.” Harry answered instead, something wistful in her tone. “That's skill. Pure skill. None of them have an ounce of magic.”

On stage young Carolyn hollered bloody murder about her mother drinking the last diet coke, bullwhip whipping at her father, seemingly at random, and splitting the can balanced atop his hairless head in two. It burst in a shower of syrup and carbonation. Dismayed at the loss of the actual last cola, she tossed down her weapon, extinguishing it, and rushed dramatically into the shadows.

Sticky business, indeed.

“Petite...” Jean-Claude cajoled, and when Harry turned her head to question the man he slipped a spoon in her mouth. Harry's exclamation was muffed by the treat that had invaded it. Her lips curved happily around it even as her eyes narrowed at the feminine man. “...fried ice cream. Tell me, how does it taste? One would think the crème would melt, no?”

Spoken as if he didn't know. The vampire's shawl was sheer enough Richard could see where muscles relaxed as he experienced the combination sugar, cinnamon, and cornflakes wrapped around a vanilla bean core as though it was himself being fed and not his human-servant.

“You can fry anything, JC. It's a law of the universe.” Harry snarked, turning back to the stage where Nissa had a metal hula-hoop going around her bare, toned middle. It was quickly joined by a smaller hoop around each arm.

Edward -Or was it Kincaid?- a man Richard knew by reputation rather than experience, snorted in his seat beside the wolf king. “Harry would know. I've seen her burn water.”

The two of them watched as Jean-Claude continued to spoon feed the woman, who accepted the treatment with the absent mindedness of the thoroughly distracted. With a gesture from her husband, points on Nissa's hoops suddenly erupted in flames. Harry wiggled happily in her seat. Jean-Claude sighed and practically melted into her side.

“Is that normal?” Edward Kincaid asked, a morbid curiosity in his tone as he eyed the other two.

“Yeah? I think Jean-Claude takes personal offense every time Harry's weight drops.”

“That's not what I meant.” Death shook his head, the smile beneath his mask rueful. “And its a losing battle for him, anyway. Magic at the level Harry practices at is like an Olympic sport. You wouldn't notice in most animators and witches because magic is their sideline. A hobby. For Harry? Its life.”

Which put the crazy metabolism of most shapeshifters into perspective. Still, for a vanilla, even the most dangerous vanilla... “You know this, why?”

A gust of wind cut through, Nissa's flames guttering, and smoke that couldn't have come from the stage act tickled his wolf's senses. The mercenary tapped his cane on the hard packed dirt as the show came to a close. “Gotta know your enemy. That's half the battle.”

Jean-Claude waved a Cool Whip flaked cherry like he was ringing a small bell as the audience began to break up. Harry's teeth snatched it out of the air, stem and all. She undid the snaps of her money pouch, palming several gold and silver dollar coins, one cheek filled as though with a jawbreaker. Staff in hand, she stepped over the now vacant bench in front of them and walked down the isle.

“Next time, I'll take your fingers.” Harry warned, words garbled by the cherry. She swallowed and stuck out her tongue like a second grader. “ _Nyaah_.”

Richard palmed his forehead.

She had a knotted cherry stem on the tip of her tongue. Jean-Claude's eyes glimmered, a preternatural glow sparking within.  He almost felt sorry for the vampire.

 _La douleur exquise_.

* * *

 The world glinted, colored glass catching and reflecting from the hundred or so candles that filled the air with lavender and chamomile. My head tilted back, gaze drawn to the rafters and the heavy beams covered in as many hooks as a porcupine had quills. Glass creatures of all kinds from mundane to magical hung from silk ribbons. They were beautiful. They were amazing. They were more than I could accomplish even with magic aiding me.

I wobbled dangerously, used my staff to steady myself, and made the executive decision to walk first and then admire the shiny shiny animals. Seven drinks into my personal Crawl and I was starting to have second thoughts about my decision; most people had a whole day to go through it. Maybe Richard was right and I should give up and just by a tankard.

“No.” I shook my head, slowly, thoughts slowly turning back to sculpted figurines circling me. I hovered over a chess set that pit Summer and Winter against each other and addressed a rearing centaur of a knight. “I didn't let a damn loup-garou scare me off, I'm not gonna let an up-jumped babysitter do it. Even if he has fantastic hair.”

I nodded, and for a moment I fancied the centaur nodded with me. Thirteen qualifying drinks from thirteen stalls, or special tasting events. That was the Canterbury Crawl and successful completion of it would net me a carved commemorative tankard complete with leather cap and braiding strip to attach it to my belt. In the program book a cheerful, gap-toothed lady holding a stein of her own was burned into the wood, along with the date.

She was adorable. I wanted her in my workshoppe, cheering me on, my own little Rosie. I wandered over to a display case and rested my weight against it. Six more. Six beers in three hours. I gave myself a fist pump. “We can _do it_.”

“That is a beautiful dress, m'lady.” One of the sales merchants spoke up, drawing my attention back down from where I'd gotten sucked into a griffin the size of a squirrel spinning lazily above me. It was all gold and orange and clear, bright white. Like fire given form. Wings spread to catch the updraft. “Did you make it yourself? I haven't seen its like all month.”

My face was warm. It had been warm for a while. Unless I'd lost time, Jean-Claude was still in the dress shop across the lane talking with the proprietress. Richard and I'd had to practically drag him out of the stall that sold handmade boots. “Uh, not me. One of my friends did, but I'll be sure to tell him you approve.”

Mr. Glass Merchant wasn't in costume, which was a first this evening. Which wasn't to say I hadn't seen some so called time travelers – it was just that most people who ran the shoppes and stalls played into the theme. I snickered at his shirt. It was a plain white tee, the only ornamentation being the lettering, _I Like Big Books And I Cannot Lie_.

He batted at glass pendent, a stylized crescent moon nested in a sun, and nodded along to some drum beat filtering through the lane. “You've got rings and things galore. Perhaps I can interest you in a necklace?”

“Maaaybe.” Pendants and tiny creatures hung from leather cords. The cheaper pieces, clearly made by an apprentice still learning the craft, used ribbon like the large monsters above us. I held a pink unicorn in my palm. It was basic shapes, lacking the defined muscles of the master works, but it would make a child happy. At $10 a pop, a child could probably afford it.

I let the unicorn go and watched it swing back to the flock.

A guitar rift and Freddie Mercury thumped through my mind. There was so much. So shiny. I could never choose for myself.

I wound a black ribbon around my pointer finger, lifting it from the throng. Smooth, straight lines of palest blue intersected to form a valknut. “How much if we swap out the ribbon for leather?”

* * *

 “RICHARD!” Harry came barreling out of the bathroom screaming his name. Soap suds still clung to her hands as she thrust them at him, eyes wide in their band of blue. “It's bacon! BACON!”

“Ma Petite, perhaps you should-”

She cut Jean-Claude off with raised jazz hands and another scream of, “BACON!”

Edward chuckled. “Drunk wizards are best wizards.”

Harry spun to the mercenary and flapped at him. “Holy hell, Kincaid. It's bacon scented soap! Use your nose! Or, yes, RICHARD! TRACK! I need to find the stall that is selling this shit! It is amazing!”

His eyebrows were concealed by the mask he wore, but Richard got the distinct impression of an eyebrow raising as the man coughed. His next words put the Ulfric in the mind of a British lumberjack. “You're a wizard, Harry.”

The woman paused. Her mouth formed a little 'O' of understanding before she cackled something about never smelling vanilla again and ran back to the bathroom, heedless of the complaints from those waiting in the line. The door hadn't even had a chance to swing closed before she burst back out, broken bits of soap samples clenched in one hand.

Harry continued past the three men, stopping only once she came to a spot in the lane free of both grass and foot traffic. Pressing the end of her staff into dirt, the wizard turned, dragging the wood along the ground and circumscribing a circle of such perfection it could only be from practice. The hairs on the back of Richard's neck rose as the scent of ozone flashed into existence.

Harry dropped her appropriated soap bits to the ground and began patting at her belts, finally removing a compass and holding it out triumphantly.

“...is this a performance? Improv?” A man behind Richard asked, voice low. The werewolf glanced around, and noticed a small crowd attracted by Harry's antics. Death was no help. He was talking to a short red head in studded leather that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Richard considered agreeing, but then shook his head as Jean-Claude crouched down outside Harry's circle. The fascination that vampire was feeling as he watched Harry mutter over her pile of restroom loot burned. “Bacon quest.”

The man behind him nodded in sage agreement. “Bacon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Just checked wiki. BO has witch burning taking place 1953. For Dresden's sake, this AU is leaving it as 1935.


	6. Shenaniganz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As far as Harry is concerned, he is not drunk. Everything he does has perfectly logical reasoning behind it. 
> 
> Fair security would like to have words with him, though.

The directional arrow spun lazily on the enchanted compass, like a dog searching for a scent on the wind. Dogs liked bacon. Cats, too, if it was crisp and crunchy and decorating their kibble like sprinkles on ice cream. My fingers closed around the cheap plastic bauble. I dabbed at the corners of my eyes with a knuckle, careful not to ruin the strip of sparkling eyeshadow, and then stepped over the circle I'd etched in the earth. The intangible barrier broke, and with it came a release of power that ruffled skirts and chilled skin.

Sloppy.

I frowned, sparing a moment to look away from my spelled compass and back at the rushed circle. Jean-Claude was examining the space I'd vacated, squatting, his own skirts carefully tucked under and around in such a way one might think he had a stool stuffed under all those layers of linen and silk. The dark ringlets he'd left free had made their way forward, falling in a line to the small, illusory bust formed from ribbon, corsetry, and well tailored fabric.

A shoulder dipped as the vampire reached out to trace the bacon-y squiggles I'd left behind in the circle. I suppose they could have been mistaken for something more esoteric, but bacon was strips and magic was more symbolism than science. His palm hovered briefly over the pile of drained, dusty soap before he stood with a graceful twist of his body. He smiled softly at me, and his skirts went _swish-swish_ while rudely eradicating the remains of my spell work. Midnight blue eyes had lightened with faint traces of power, but it wasn't directed at me.

It wouldn't have helped, anyway. As his human-servant I was as immune to Jean-Claude's vampire wiles as it was humanly possible to be. After all; you can't hypnotize yourself. That is just silly.

The smile hiked up on one side, the simplicity of it spilling into something heavier. It made the pink gloss on his lips catch the light and glisten like strips of freshly fried bacon still dripping with the melted fat of itself.

With that mental image giggles bubbled out of me as froth from a champagne bottle. My face flushed and I stumbled backward, compass filled fist pressing against my open mouth as I desperately tried to stifle the laughter. I listed to the side, was righted by someone I didn't know but who had hands roughed to leathery mitts, and staggered in the direction my magic had indicated with a malformed apology.

The Glorious Bacony Lard Cake would be mine! I just had to stay focused and – how many beers had I had? More than necessary, but those hadn't counted because I'd carried them off. I'd had a little bottle of water but dropped it Left it?- at some point. It hadn't fit in any pouches and was too much trouble to keep track of.

All the more reason to reach the bacon. And it would be the good cuts of bacon, light on the marbling, not the lard enriched cast offs...

Only, I couldn't eat soap like I could eat candles. Or, I could, but then I would be burping bubbles instead of beer and the lye would make it taste bad. Shaking my head, then immediately regretting it, I stood still and took a deep breath. I held my compass before me and got my bearing. “Ba-con!” The words came as a guttural growl from the back of my throat, working past phlegm so as to be hardly recognizable as I pitched the next set to a sing-song. “So jui-cy _sweeet._ ”

The more I walked, the less I laughed, and the easier it was to walk. An excellent, efficient cycle. So armed, I marched. Though I couldn't be sure if the drum beat that accompanied me was in my head or some of the fair folk, but not _those_ fair folk thank the stars, thinking they were funny.

* * *

Richard had his hands in the pockets of his leather pants, the woven design successfully hiding their existence until he deigned to use them. It wouldn't do to have something so practical as pockets ruin the aesthetic Jean-Claude had put so much effort into. Richard snorted to both disguise the chuckle that was building in his chest and to clear his nostrils of lingering incense. Harry moved with single-minded, if unsteady, purpose as her gaze remained locked on the compass of such quality Richard's old scout master would have despaired.

But, the King of Thronos Rokke supposed, Harry doing her own impression of Belle did not require a map. She tromped through groups of people, stepped over drainage ditches and tent poles, and ignored hawkers while taking short cuts through their stalls, all with a look of intense concentration on her face and a trail of commentary that was one drumbeat away from a song and dance number. _She really is a funny girl. That belle._

He tilted his head in consideration, mentally picturing Jean-Claude in a red tunic, and almost missed catching the geodes Harry had inadvertently knocked off a table. When he smiled at the exhausted shop girl it filled his whole face. Now that the image was lodged in his mind, he couldn't shake the idea of the Master of the City singing while three busty blondes fell over themselves behind him. The shop girl blushed looked down, her tired smile reflected in the glass orb she'd formerly had balanced on her head.

“Sorry about that.” Richard chuckled. “She's on a quest.” He offered in way of apology while putting the so-called dragon eggs back in their nest. Aside from a few smaller sub-species smuggled out of China before the communist purges, dragons were extinct.

Ironic, that now Zhao Ziyang was trying to get those same species returned as stolen national treasures.

“Oh, um, that's... okay. I was going to start closing up soon, anyway. Once the dance starts this place is pretty dead – uh, no offense!” Paint chipped nails clenched at the orb, and green eyes bounced around like a rabbit in a trap looking at everything but his face. Surprise tempered humor, and Richard stepped back while trying to make himself smaller. Cloaks really were made for slouching. She continued: “If you are, um, dead.”

“I'm not.” Odd that a werewolf could be mistaken for a vampire... shit. When he'd saved those geodes he'd caught them all. Not exactly human level reflexes, especially when he'd had to cross several feet of ground to get the to the table, and he hadn't even thought about it. His gaze wandered over the display of rocks, the tiny fountain burbling into a dog bowl, ceramics displayed on shelves, before landing back on the ball she held as if it held all the answers. In a way it did. “I juggle. Hobby. These eggs aren't much bigger than the bean bags I practice with.”

“Oh! I juggle myself! Well, try to. I started contact juggling last year.” To demonstrate the girl raised her glass in the air and started rotating her wrist. Like a mime at a wall, to Richard's eyes it appeared as though the orb was floating as the she tried to push it through the air. Then it rolled down the pale inner flesh of her arm, and she cradled it at the bend of her elbow for a moment before popping the ball into the air with a little spasm. “Having a bit of difficulty getting it to turn around, but I am hopeful!”

“Still, impressive.” Richard plucked a geode up from the nest. Was he supposed to reciprocate? He couldn't actually juggle. Maybe if he bought a few? Geology wasn't his subject, but he could use them as a talking point with his AP students: Magic vs. Myth and the End of an Era. “Actually, I was thinking I could buy a few of these?”

“Of course!” This time her smile of unabashed and there was a bounce to her walk as she made for the antique looking register. Richard glanced around before following, but neither Jean-Claude, Harry, or the tiny entourage she'd accumulated in her shenanigans could be seen. He could feel Harry, though, as always when he thinned his shields. He layered them like nesting dolls, like wrapping paper made of mental steel, because his beast liked to roam and anything else was too confining.

“I guess it's just me...”

“I'm sorry?” Green eyes were more black as pupils expanded in the dim lamp light. She wrapped his rocks in tissue paper and taped it in place. They then slipped inside a generic plastic bag, weighty but silent as the big yellow cartoon face grinned at the world.

“Hmm? Nothing.” He declined to mention the warmth that did not come from his cloak, or the smile that pressed into the back of his neck as a French voice whispered though his mind as though drunk. Vampires couldn't get drunk. They couldn't _drink_. And he was almost positive Jean-Claude had not claimed a victim, choosing instead to rely on Harry's happy consumption of anything deep fried or sprinkled with sugar to see him through the night.

“We are never alone, _mon loup_. Not truly. Not anymore.”

* * *

I kept my eyes on the needle as I passed through the fair grounds. This type of tracking spell I'd used countless times before, and in numerous permutations. Lost Items Found is a specialty of mine, and one time I'd been caught away from my kit and had to use my own sense of smell as the guide. And, fun fact? Scent has always been my principal way of detecting magic. Some wizards feel it, like the subtle temperature differences of shadows on skin, others might have a pressure in their ears or a chime that is out of tune with the usual background noise. We all have the Sight, once activated, but that first gut instinct that pulls at the subconscious when we're first discovering our magic is different.

My metaphysical tie to Richard meant that I'd periodically get boosts to my already sensitive nose. He was, supposedly, working on it. That still didn't change the fact that I lived with several people to whom I was not noseblind to and I did not want to be that dick office mate who dragged everybody into HR to discuss personal hygiene or lack thereof.

With this in mind I feel quite qualified to say that the smell of bacon sizzling on the griddle is nigh on holy, and I don't give a damn if pork is the very antithesis of kosher. The Pope already excommunicated my ass, all us animation capable asses, anyways so it was a good thing my Catholicism only ever extended to attending the occasional guilt induced Mass Michael and Charity invited me to.

I paused in my trek only long enough to determine that, yes, there was a rather expansive ditch in my path. A trickle of water flowed over moss at the bottom, testament to the origin of the gulf carved by past flooding. In the weak moonlight exposed roots resembled a tangle of dry spaghetti. I glanced around and realized I had _no idea_ where I was in relation to the map in the program book. The single downside to the tracking spell was lack of GPS compatibility. It pointed directly at the target regardless of walls, pedestrians, or oceans. In the city this caused delays and frustration – particularly when I got stuck driving on those fucking one way streets.

Chicago I knew well enough to avoid such pitfalls. St. Louis? Still working on it.

The dirt lane I found myself on curved along the ditch in both directions. A quick swivel of my neck produced no decently placed footbridges, with or without troll, though a tent selling wind chimes tinkled to my right. I glared at the far side of the ditch-slash-trickle. It wasn't that far. A little more than two, maybe three yards?

I backed up, measuring my steps, and I drowned out the tiny voice of sanity in the back of my mind with a chant of Bacon in the morning, Bacon in the Evening, Bacon at supper time. I was running even as a faint feminine sigh of exasperation touched my awareness. As I approached the edge I was suddenly intimately away of my own breathing, my heartbeat, the warm muscles of my hamstrings as they tensed, but I was already moving, already making that leap. My legs kicked at the air.

The first magic I had ever performed was a wind spell. I'd been pissed at the older kids. Bigger than me. More capable. I was still stinging after the loss of another foster family and I wanted to prove I was good enough. I was bigger now. Stronger. I didn't need the magic to do it.

The memory flashed into the front of my mind, my rage distant and yet so very fresh, and as I cleared the creek it was as if I was again clearing yards and yards of sand. I landed now as I did then, my head swimming, my ass aching as my legs buckled and I rolled onto my side. Unlike then, I puked. Just a little. There was plenty of dirt to absorb it and I don't think anyone saw me throw up.

“Holy shit! Are you okay?” Someone yelled. Did they have to yell?

I huuuurgh'd at them, my hands groping at the air until a genteel pirate grasped my forearm and helped me up. I was surrounded by saucy wenches and buccaneers. A gauntlet of leather held my elbow as a true queen of the seas pushed my hair out of my face, a concerned expression on her own. It made her adorable. Little button nose set above pursed lips plumped with dark purple lipstick.

It was a good thing I was still rattled from my faulty landing, otherwise she might have triggered a soul gaze.

I reached out with my hand, casting my magic like a net, and ignoring the other little voice questioning my location -I didn't even fucking know- I calling my staff back to my hand from where I'd dropped it when my ass hit dirt.

On the other side of the ditch among the group that I had -HA- ditched a man in a heavy smithing apron gave me the stink eye while talking into a radio. I glared back. His radio was totally out of sync with the faire, let alone his costume.

“Cra-h-ipes.” One of the wenches exclaimed, jumping on her toes. Silk scarves fluttered around her like torn wings. “You're that bii-ah-witch from Lord of the Log. Oh, oh snap.”

I nodded slowly while searching the ground for my dropped compass. Someone squealed. Someone else did what a generous person might call a river dance.

“We would have stayed to talk, but Cassie didn't want to miss the flea circus. It is late nights only, you know.” Someone new said. He had an odd cadence to his voice, putting a strained emphasis on some words. It was weird enough I stopped examining the weeds and looked up. And up. My jaw dropped. It was the most perfect cosplay I'd seen in person.

“Captain Jack Sparrow!” I squeaked. He grinned roguishly, as was proper.

“Goddammit Jack,” Lady Pirate sighed, as she crossed her arms beneath her well shaped bosom. I was surprised they didn't fall out of the bustier. “It's not my fault. One of these years I'm going to figure out how she does it. Fleas are too damn stupid to drive a chariot...”

I slowly blinked as my thoughts caught up to the chatter. Wasn't that for kids? “How can you even see them from the seats?”

She blushed and grumbled something unintelligible. Another pirate snorted. Jack Sparrow mouthed what looked like _maggots_ but was not _._ The girl of silk and scarves and too much eyeliner pushed her way to my side, close enough I could feel her energy radiating like a space heater. I reeled as sweat and soured perfume hit me line a slap. “Do you mind if we accompany you for a bit? I've got so many questions! How did you do that cyclone?! The most I've ever managed was nudging a pencil!”

“Marcy!”

She ignored her friend, questions kept coming, and I as my cheeks heated my mouth went on autopilot as my desperately scanning eyes caught a shine of plastic in the dirt.  I lunged, “BACON!”

The compass pointed unerringly forward past a thin screen of cloth banners. My nose tickled as I caught fresh scents. My mouth watered.

“What's that?” Marcy asked, only temporarily halted by my flight of her... herness. She was like the anti-Molly. She probably wore bright fuzzy sweaters and flower earrings in her mundane life.

Captain Jack Sparrow towered over her and peaked at my hands. They were all still following. For some reason. “Hmm. Mine may not be as pretty,” He flipped open an old, dinged up metal case to reveal the compass within. “But does it show your heart's desire?”

“Better.” I grinned, all teeth as we rounded the wall of screens to see a small group of buildings and picnic tables. Shacks leaned into one another as old soldiers on a battlefield. One was already closed up for the night. A quick dance determined that was not the one my compass wanted. I headed for the King's Kitchen and stomped up to the window, slamming my open palm on the counter sill. “Bacon!”

A freckle faced young lad frowned at me and pointed to the menu. I corrected myself to Pig-on-a-Stick instead as Captain Jack pulled one of his crew over and rang the little bells hanging from the wrap at her waist. When freckles returned after conversing with the cook his frowned deepened. Jack just smiled and ordered a rum.

I giggled.

“I already told you, sir.” The boy bit out. Clearly he wasn't in the spirit of the festival. Or maybe that was his character. Surly kitchen boy. “We are the Royal Kitchens. We do not serve so base a drink as rum.”

“B-but where has the rum gone?” Jack whispered in despair, as if the world itself had lied to him.

I felt a bit like that myself as the cook stepped beside Freckles and pushed a paper boat at me. Pig-on-a-Stick was most definitely not bacon, nor was it some strange form of Soap-on-a-Rope. I bit into the seasoned chunk of pork anyway, the pepper and garlic going straight to my sinuses and threatening to flush them out. I continued eating as I stumbled over to one of the tables. Jean-Claude had been throwing pastries at me all night and I needed something with more substance in my belly.

...where was Jean-Claude? Richard? I vaguely recalled Kincaid saying something about needing to meet up with Ivy...

“Not quite bacon.” Lady Pirate commented as she plunked down on my left, surreptitiously eyeing me as I masticated in morose silence. I chewed. I thought. I rubbed the spelled compass with my thumb as hot, marinated meat juice dripped down the skewer and ran over my fingers. I sucked at them in a vain attempt to clean rings and digits. The woman nudged a cup of water in my direction while her raiding party took advantage of last call to order their own food. I accepted the cup with a toast of thanks but declined the bottle of little white pills she rattled like maracas.

Her eyebrows arched as poured a portion of her water over my juice drenched hand, shaking it dry after.

My magic had failed... stars, no. I had failed. The magic worked fine. It zeroed in on the scent of cooking pork. Exactly what I had been thinking about as I whispered the spell. It was me that fucked up.

“Is something wrong?” Marcy asked while creeping up on our table, speaking around a sandwich of shredded beef and boiled cabbage. “Something wrong with your compass?”

I sighed, slumping, suddenly tired. I had _wanted_ that soap. “Not really.”

“...may I?” She asked as her friends circled up. I passed the compass to her eagerly cupped hands, and a little spark zinged from her skin to mine. The girl didn't seem to notice, dark eyes widening in excitement as the arrow began to spin rapidly. She had some minor talent, very minor, but it was enough for the sloppily spelled compass to react.

Huh. That was less explosive than the anti-gravity* potion I'd once tried to make after a particularly bad day. Forget drinking and driving. Drinking and magicking are a hazard to hearth and home.

“Oh! It stopped!”

It had. The arrow was pointed away from the kitchens now; somewhere off on the other side of the ditch. Where I had just come from. Shit. Captain Jack's navigator, the Lady Pirate, unrolled a map and oriented it and herself in line with the red point of the directional arrow. Marcy of the silks and super enthusiasm was hopping up from foot to foot, hips jingling, exclaiming that this was a sign of adventure.

Lady Pirate rolled up her map and swatted the dancing Marcy on the back of the head with it.

Jack Sparrow grinned at me, eyes somehow bigger and blacker and more emotive than they had any right to be behind all that eyeliner, and offered his hand with a little bow. “To bacon and rum?”

I accepted the hand up with as regal a nod as I could manage. “To bacon... and rum.” I was getting that soap, and I was getting that stein, even if I had to literally crawl to get there.

* * *

 “You have one of the most interesting auras I've ever seen.” Blythe commented as she tip-toed her fingers up Richard's spine before pressing down hard on his rhomboid, sliding the base of her palm along the muscle. The Ulfric lay prone on the padded table, half asleep and groaning indecently at the pressure. “Very warm. Though there are dark spots scattered, like a speckled hen.”

“Is that -aaaah- a good thing?” He lay bare chested, cloak and clothing abandoned on a rickety TV tray that had been set up just for that purpose. A dollar a minute was far too cheap for Madame Blythe's service. Her thumb dug past the muscles of his back and straight into the ruff of his beast, the great wolf lolling with its tongue out as practiced hands worked him over.

They were alone. She could have killed him, smothered him with the pillows littering the room, and he wouldn't so much as raise a voice of protest. It would have taken too much effort. Practiced fingers paused for a moment, clamped on either side of his neck, and began squeezing in tiny, circular motions. They worked their way across his shoulders, sliding over skin, grasping at the flesh and pulling out tension like taffy from a machine.

“Hmm? Dunno. I'd say you're an optimist, usually. So warm, makes me want to cuddle right up to these big muscles and take some of that energy for myself.” So saying, Blythe draped herself across Richard's back and gave a little shimmy.

Richard sneezed as gray streaked hair tickled his nose. She giggled, quiet movements and air curling against him, and straightened up with only a single affectionate pat of his leather clad ass. Hips swaying she walked around the table to better reach his side, and her fists began a methodical combing starting just off center of his spine and down his ribs. “If you were even... twenty... years younger -ung- I'd marry you.”

The next laugh that pealed out of the masseuse was anything but girlish. “If I was twenty years younger I'd fuck you into the table,” Blythe's voice dipped low as she purred, fists letting up to kneading playfully at his back. “ _My lord._ ”

“Richard.” Interrupted an accented voice that echoed in Richard's skull, irritation laced within.

Richard sighed and muttered, “Not now.”

“Oh-ho?” Madame Blythe questioned, resuming her work as her client tensed up. “You've already seen how wonderful my hand jobs are, and we _all_ look the same in the dark.”

“Richard, I canno find our 'Arriet. 'Ave you- what are you doing?”

Richard ignored Jean-Claude and focused on the spreading palms on his upper back. They pressed, sliding apart, and the werewolf let out an exultation as the impossible to reach popped loudly. The release was amazing. Blythe cheered and leaned back, and Richard could see her arm reaching past the little tray of oils for the wine glass behind them all.

“...Êtes-vous _forniquer?_ ”

“Better.” It was the only word he managed before another groan was pushed out of him. This time it was his mid back that popped.

“Odd. Your aura is changing... and I know I haven't drunk _that_ much.” The older woman pouted, stepping away from her client while swirling the wine in its glass. Her eyes narrowed at him, and she canted her head. “Streaks of white, no, not white. Voids, growing, eating all the colors up... It _is_ a mystery. But, I _do_ love a mystery.”

It was easier to think without the goddess' hands in his scruff. Richard turned over and sat up, rocking his head from side to side. He had the impression of warmth in his hands. Mouth watering sour cream and chives. It was only with supreme effort he directed his next words though their connection and not his mouth. “Are you holding a potato?”

“Oui. And I 'ave no 'Arry to et it! She 'as bean stolen away by scoundrels.”

“Jean-Claude, you are being ridiculous.” Richard pawed through his things until he found his wallet while reminding his vampire of their plans to meet at the maypole before the dancing started. The werewolf straightened and smiled flirtatiously at the woman who bore an inner spirit that belied her age. She set her wine back down to accept a fifty dollar bill with a henna covered hand. “Another twenty minutes and wake me up before the Ball?”

Blythe made a show of looking around the tent, and the near deserted faire lane outside. The dancing started just after midnight and would last till closing time.

Most people were leaving, or were headed to the Mayfield already to get a good spot.

“Not worried I'll take, mmm, advantage of you?” The lines on her face crinkled like tea-stained wrapping paper.

Richard hopped back on the table. If he'd had his tail out, it would be wagging. His lightly tanned skin practically glowed in the lamplight as the heady, heavy scent of lavender from the oils wove a spell of its own. “Honestly, Madame, I'm not sure I would mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter started to get too long so I'm moving the final scene to the beginning of the next chapter. This had the effect of pushing everything else around and creating an extra chapter. Blame JC.
> 
> *Mentioned in _Storm Front_ when Bob is giving Harry examples of his past stupid ideas.


	7. JC II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Chapter That Wouldn't Fucking End.

It wasn't nearly as wonderful as tasting through his Harriet, but the evening air was clear and bright and spiced with tumultuous energy. Different, Jean-Claude mused as he touched up a dusting of blush on his pale cheeks, than the energy of his City when he walked the streets but a heady mixture of life nonetheless. It was sorely tempting taste that life. He had yet to take blood for the night, he doubted Harry had even considered the lack of willing donors on the trip might be a problem, but for the period he took his dress from milk white had been the standard of beauty.

A thought flitted through his mind, an image, of long dark hair and burning eyes contrasting sharply against a delicate, corpse pale body that shimmered, flush with power, in the moonlight.

((A bloated tick.))

Yes. Pale had been the standard, and she who had set it was terrible and beautiful and an ocean away and would remain so.  The thought sent an immature shiver of pleasure though him, fusing with the pulse of languid ease flowing from Richard. Jean-Claude snapped the makeup case shut along with the memory, and slipped it into the pearl strewn purse at his wrist. Tonight, blood was unnecessary. He'd shown the Council that. He needed only his servant's warmth, and his Harriet was a _bonfire._ Jean-Claude smoothed his skirts and straightened. He pressed his fingers to his lips as a spike of sensation radiated from his wizard, poorly shielded as she was. He swallowed, reflexively, even as she swallowed. Cold and crisp and... his mind searched. It had been a great deal of time since he'd last tasted...

Bananas?

Jean-Claude stepped out of the changing room with his practiced, pleasant smile on his face. It was not entirely false. Beer brewed with bananas. Who would have thought!

“Merci.” The vampire gave a small curtsy, a regal nod of the head and a slight bend of knee, to the trader closing up for the night. The man waved off the thanks with a muttered _de rien_ as he counted out bills at the register. At any other place, any other time Jean-Claude might have experienced a sense of wariness in his silks surrounded by leather and fur and articles of carved bone, but he wasn't and he didn't. Instead he approached the counter and gathered up his purchases where they waited wrapped in butcher paper and twine. “Do you perhaps have a card, sir?”

The man flashed a smile. He didn't meet Jean-Claude's eyes. “Of course! We don't have as much of a selection on our website, but you can shoot us an email and we can work out custom orders or payment plans.”

Jean-Claude let his smile deepen in appreciation as he took the offered card disappeared it. He himself had no further need of Original Impulses' offerings, but he could think of several of his people that would be interested. No matter how thin the fabric clothing was armor in their world. It separated beast from vampire, created delineations of rank and power amongst the undead themselves, and acted as camouflage in the throngs of humanity.

It was not so long ago, to his reckoning, that a vampire a little too out of step with the fashions of the locality was an easily tracked and staked vampire. A most deadly faux pas. He rubbed subconsciously at the golden silk over his stomach. His Harriet and Richard may tease, but he could be forgiven for indulging now and then, couldn't he? The nineteen eighties had been torture on his eyes and sense of self.

Jean-Claude tucked his purchase under his arm in preparation to leave the little leatherwork shoppe, but paused. The weight of the thing was nothing, but the scratchy brown wrapping clashed terribly with his dress. It was far too plebian and tonight, this night, he was a _lady_.

((You fumble, lordling, like a infant reaching for its mother's hair.))

The master vampire turned back to the merchant, skirts rippling with the movement. He addressed the man as he counted out the last green slip and made a notation in his book, “Pardon?”

“Did you need help with something else?” The man asked, eyebrows raising in curiosity as his eyes remained firmly locked on Jean-Claude's nose. A moth fluttered behind him, moving erratically through the air as though it could not decide which humming light bulb to chase. Jean-Claude held his goods to his chest, like a child with a teddy bear, and lowered his eyes. His eyelashes were long, he knew, and with a little make up became downright femme.

“I feel simply terrible asking this,” A lie, but it wasn't as though a normal human could taste it. “But, _monsieur_ , if you are closing shop anyway...”

“You're our last patron for the night.” Dusky brown bangs fell across the man's eyes as he nodded, the movement slow, watchful. The hand that had slipped the ledger under the counter remained there, and Jean-Claude gave a closed mouth smile as his ears picked out the so quiet slide of something smooth and heavy against wood. Cross? Gun? He knew not.

“Then, if you wouldn't mind?” Jean-Claude asked while lifting his twine bound package. This had the advantage of shifting the fabric at his bust and drawing those concealed eyes downward for a moment before they snapped up in embarrassment, pupils dilating, and the vampire had him. “Would you please deliver this to the gate in the care of Madame de Beaumont? I would have arranged it earlier, but I confess I was distracted and the ball is to start so soon.”

The man's eyes were the kind of blue that almost always washed out into a slate gray in direct light. They were like that now, caution melting into dreamy anticipation as Jean-Claude matched his inner fire to the spark of humanity that burned before him. A breath, a pulse, such a small and insignificant action to kindle that ember and make it his. Roll him and be done, only...

He could. He didn't have to. They were legal now, for a given value of it, allowed to exist and why risk a strike with no real reason but to prove he could he was Master of the City and... petty. It was petty. But he knew himself and he _was_ petty. At times. So why?

Jean-Claude's expression remained pleasant as he frowned inside, unsettled at the sudden sourness in the back of his throat. His Petite was not ill, a quick tug on the bonds and rush of scattered sensory input confirmed that, but something knotted uncomfortably inside.

((...thou shalt not enthrall another...))

The Master of the St. Louis flexed his fingers, reeled his power back like a fisherman with an empty hook, and placed his hand on a counter made smooth by time. His fingertips rested a hairsbreadth away from rapidly recovering brunette's arm. There was no challenge in bespelling such a mind, and Jean-Claude enjoyed a challenge.

“I, uh, I'm sorry?” The man spoke, blood rushing to his face as his pulse sang in the vampire's ears. “Come again?”

 _You first, monsieur._ The words danced playfully on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed them back and shooed the ardeur with a practiced thought. His demon was a greedy thing unsatisfied with the tidbits of lust he'd tossed it throughout the night, but well fed all the same and willing to wait. Weeks and months in cross-wrapped confinement had taught them both patience. Jean-Claude's lips formed a little smile as he repeated his question for the merchant and his mind wandered. He would wait. He could make his pomme wait, unfulfilled, his friend the would-be-thief bound at his side. They would enjoy such.

Though; she was his Nimir-Ra. Jean-Claude reminded himself that having ties to two shifter groups was a good thing, even a group as weak as the Blooddrinkers. And Nathaniel lived in her home. Leopards did not have a rank of temoin, but her Zane served much the same function and was inclined to stonewall any inquiries on Pard members or activities. A little pussycat of his own to keep an eye on his servant's comings and goings? Advisable.

((Oh?))

Hands free, Jean-Claude left Original Impulse's little trading shack. He stepped lightly into the lane, humming a matching tune to that which drifted over the bonds he shared, and lifted his skirts just enough to show off the heeled shoes he hadn't opportunity to wear in decades. He was quite pleased they had survived the fire and preened as other costumed individuals commented on them _sotto voce._ Compliments were more frequent than critiques.

The thunder crack of a canon discharging struck his ears like a long forgotten memory.

It was.

Jean-Claude oriented himself to the sound as another blast ripped through the night air, and he was not only the patron of the faire to do so. Gradually discussions slowed, then perked up as the scattered individuals began walking as one toward the source: the Mayfield. Jean-Claude did not know precisely where the ball would be held, but as he merged himself with the streaming sparks around him he didn't need to know.

((...thou shalt not draw attention to thyself...))

“E-Excuse me...” The vampire paused and glanced to his left. A woman stood with a hesitant smile, flashing the very tips of fangs, but the rouge in her cheeks was all natural. As was the 1800's era dress she wore covered in hand embroidered flowers. She motioned behind her. “Would you mind if we took a picture? I-It's just that your dress is s-so pretty...”

Jean-Claude followed her gesture to a man in matching long coat and breeches, sans flowers, not more than five or so feet away.  Brass buttons gleamed. His expression was blank, passive, as he held a camera at the ready. His heartbeat, in contrast to the woman's, was slow. Anger spiked. He was not the first fellow vampire Jean-Claude had seen, but he had nearly two hundred years on the second eldest vampire identified thus far. A blink, a forced intake of life-sweet air, and the anxiety flitted away like a flock of spooked pheasants.

Tonight, Jean-Claude was not Master of the City.

The number of being who knew he was even here could be counted on one hand.

It was no insult; no challenge.

“I do not mind, chérie.” The other vampire gave formal nod of his head, eyes downcast, acknowledging Jean-Claude's power if not position in traditional manner. Jean-Claude raised his mask over his eyes and flicked his gaze away and back. The woman's smile stretched brilliantly as she whirled back to her companion, arm in arm with an unknown vampire. Two pairs of fangs, one real and one false, were captured in the flash of the camera. When he lowered the little box Jean-Claude could see soft ache in the other's eyes. He adored her. The dress she was wearing might have belonged to the man's human wife, once upon a time. Or a lover.

Jean-Claude patted the woman's hand. “Enjoy the rest of the faire.”

“You too!” She latched onto her boyfriend's side and claimed the camera, pressing buttons as they walked off.

The Master of St. Louis shook his head, dark curls bouncing, and resumed the journey to reunite with his own beloved.

* * *

What his Harry lacked in grace, she made up for with determination. He felt her before he saw her. The bonds pulsed with each step, her staff crushing grass and dirt clods as she picked her way around picnic tables and blankets. His marks, his body, sang with need to close that gap between himself and sa moitié. Richard was no help. The bond he held with the Ulfric was more to his beast than the man: it did not produce the same Master-Servant skin hunger that his marks with Harry did. Perhaps if he opened them up, did not strangle the flow of the connection as much as he did the longing would alleviate but if he did so...

Her makeup was mussed and had mingled with dirt to form a bruise on her cheek. Jean-Claude pushed off from the light pole he'd be waiting beside and caught himself, hiding sudden fists within the bell of his dress sleeves. In time with his own thoughts Harry's free hand came up to the side of her face. She licked the back of her hand and rubbed away the illusory bruise. Her magic flared and crept out like a living fog, vines of death, and he called along their bond, “Ma Petite. To your left.”

She turned right. He sighed. If she knew what he had done, with their relationship so fragile, she would run.

((No. Nothing so cowardly. But you would not like it, lordling, I know I would not.))

“Your other left.”

“I knew that.” Harry grumbled as she stubbornly continued the direction of her spin until she faced him. She walked as carefully as if she were checking for bear traps. “Not my fault your left is my right. Be more clear next time, Jean-Claude.”

“Clearer, Ma Petite.”

“You're both right, now shut up.” Richard called. His vest was unbuttoned, the ties of his top unlaced, and he lazed with half-lidded eyes next to a pile of his own purchases.  The heavy, oiled fabric of his cloak had been spread out around him like a blanket. “They're wheeling out a harp.”

Standing alone and erect in the middle of the small, kept pasture was the Maypole. It was as a tall as a telephone and was, in fact, a telephone pole only instead of branches to hold wires and mount metal boxes of electricity it had a single metal ring encircling the top, and in a way reflected the throng of humanity that now encircled the field. A multitude of colored ribbons twisted down from the metal ring weaving tightly around the maypole so not an inch of dark wood could be seen.

It was into this empty expanse King and Queen of the Faire stepped. Older, plump, they wore their costumes as though they had been born to them and when they smiled it reached their eyes. There was some exhaustion there, Jean-Claude could see, but it was buried deep. The vampire could sympathize. A king was not so different from a ringmaster.  Perhaps more so here.

“My Queen and I thank thee, loyal subjects, for coming out this night of all nights.” The voice was a deep bass and projected clearly across the crowd. “For tonight we celebrate the fantastic in all its many forms. To our patrons, to our gods, to our devils! We shall dance!”

He offered his hand to the Queen as the first notes of an aching familiar, slow tune began to play. The lady took it with a sensual echo of his own closing remarks. The couple stood side by side yet distant, and Jean-Claude watched the slow, gentle steps of the basse danse unfold. It was nothing like the grinding, almost predatory movements on display at Danse Macabre.

Jean-Claude's eyes slid over to the woman at _his_ side. Harry leaned heavily on her staff, lips pursed with intent concentration on her healthily flushed face. As ever, her power gathered and drifted around her, and how could something so hot produce a power so cold? She was a flame that froze, a star that threatened to outshine all the sparks of life around them.

His hand touched her back, lingered there.

((...not yours. Not even mine...))

Visitors, no, villagers were moving through the crowd. There was a continuity to their costumes, to their walk, that separated them from the rest of the people. Jean-Claude watched as they lined up while the King and Queen approached the end of their performance. His eyebrows rose as a few non-villagers hurried over to the hastily formed corridor of bodies. Men on one side. Women on the other. They would start as soon as the royal couple assumed their seats on the raised platform with the musicians, surely?

His Harriet huffed, and the emotions that carried over to him were so tangled it would take Alexander himself to begin to make sense of it. “I _can_ dance, you know.”

“Oh, I do not doubt that, Ma Petite. But this is a certain type of dance...” He tried to soothe.

“I _know_. Justin insisted.” The words were a slap, and with them came bitterness and the scent of smoke. But there was a tinge of something sweeter. Carefully, so very carefully so as not to get sucked into the quagmire that was his servant's psychic shields, Jean-Claude sent a memory of his own to tease out that sweetness.

Harry wavered and it was his hand at her back that kept her steady. Her expression relaxed. Where Jean-Claude had offered a memory of his Lady's hair flashing gold in magnified fire light as they spun around a ballroom, he now saw a young girl with hair like harvested wheat and limbs long and gawky as a newborn colt. A scratchy recording crooned from a gramophone and then, as now, boy and girl had the sky for their ceiling and the earth as their dancefloor.

Jean-Claude took the memory and tucked it away, gently. The line of dancers was beginning to move. Step. Step. Step. Bow.

His servant turned to fully face him, and they were so close the action pressed Harry's body into his. The marks screamed in want. Harry did not smile but her eyes gleamed devilishly. Across time, the memory played, and she was he. “Veux-tu danser avec moi?”

What had Lady Lissette said? “Non. Tu danseras avec _moi.”_

Vampire wrapped arms around Servant, and they ran. Richard grunted as a length of heavy walnut dropped onto his stomach. Harry was giggling, feet surer with Jean-Claude's own stamina running through her, and they reached the tail end of the procession as it made its way out to the green.

* * *

 

Harry's memories, her thoughts, were a scattered mess. Most times, they were filled with so much emotion -and Jean-Claude had begun to realize why that was, how important of a component happiness, joy, anger, and even fear were to molding magic- that everything else was a blur of color and sound. Other times he was certain something, someone, was interfering and straining out everything that would lead Jean-Claude to the inner workings of his Servant.

The two of them danced as flute, harp, and drum played. Fingers separated by inches they took slow, careful steps. Glides, truly. The basse danse was an exercise in control. A courtship. Sometimes little flourishes were added according to the local court, but the steps remained the same. Jean-Claude turned with his upper body to the left while making a wide, sweeping gesture with his arm as though he were flicking water from his hand. Next to him Harry did the same with her right. Two steps, slides, forward.

The motions were familiar, calming. He had always loved the dancing. He retreated into the memories, his own and his Harry's, comparing and contrasting in this window of intimacy. Where most supernatural creatures forged psychic fortresses of stone or steel or complicated web works the shielding around Harry was ephemeral, as though it were second hand and undetectable until crashed into.

But, why did it seem as though all her clearer memories were from that of a tall man?

Jean-Claude took another step, twirled in a full circle, and bowed low to his partner. His _wizard_. His _half_. Three slow steps back, another bow, reunite. Palms raised, not quite touching, blue stared into brown as they circled round.

Asher had reported. Richard had seen. Warrick had accused. Jean-Claude felt. Perhaps Descartes had a point, but simply on a smaller scale?

How _did_ demons cross into the world? What stopped them from breaking through that gate? What is a Demonreach?

...could other creatures do the same?

“'snot allowed.” Harry murmured, expression intent as the line of dancers curved around the maypole and the tempo changed. Steps became lighter, faster, higher.  Again they raised hands, palms so close he could feel her body heat radiating, and they turned.  Switching hands, and back the other way. “Buzz. Buzz. Think too loud.”

Jean-Claude withdrew, squeezing down on the psychic connection between them till it was little more than a trickle and the marks protested like reopened wounds.  The wizard stumbled, one step becoming a foreshortened two, which Jean-Claude matched.  Not perfect, of course, but purposeful.  Harry recovered as the circle called for the 'men' to switch partners and Death swept into Jean-Claude's view has Harry gave a squeal of, "Ivy!" She broke from the line and charged over to the older woman, picking her up under the armpits and whirling her around,  the both of them giggling as flower petals fell from a gray white braid.

Jean-Claude had never met the woman, but Richard had, and the power that lurked in the aged bones was unmistakable. The Vargamor of Oak Tree held an unfinished staff, roughly hewn from her clan's namesake, but where his petite used runes and bands of metal Jean-Claude saw pictures in progress.  The two witches danced away, somehow stepping between the formal lines in their jittering, laughing movements.  Death sighed and turned to Jean-Claude, offering a raised palm and lop sided grin as if saying, "Women, yeah?" 

Jean-Claude curtseyed and accepted Death's offer as the music changed yet again, and a cello was added to the strings. The hand at his waist guided them away from spectacle of his wizard and her mentor -no, that was not right but what was- with the same elegance he'd shown earlier that night. The mask was ever present, his chin clean-shaven and mouth a pleasant smile.

His eyes were gray icebergs, cold and fearless.

If he still needed breath, it would have been caught. The Executioner may have been the one to make the killing blow, but he could not forget Death had been the one to accept the contract. Twice. Midnight blue embers sparked in the vampire's eyes, habit and instinct reaching out to take hold of the threat and neutralize it.

Gray, gray eyes. Like fog. Like smoke. Jean-Claude fanned his fire but all he caught was the snarl of a beast and teeth snapping against the inside curve of his skull.

Death was only a bare inch or two taller than Jean-Claude. In heels, they were a matched pair. The assassin smiled wider, teeth bared, and spoke, “Don't worry, Master of St. Louis. I'm not gonna kill you. Yet.”

“Oh?” Jean-Claude let the man spin him. They dipped.

“Yeah. Turns out I accidentally'd the client who wanted you dead. No paycheck, not worth it. Whoops.”

“I am not so sorry for the mistake.”

“His fault. Shit like that happens when you go through intermediaries... although. I don't always accept money. Sometimes I take trade. Depends on the favor.” Death's gaze drifted, tracking something beyond Jean-Claude's sight. It allowed vampire to examine hunter in detail, and a single, terrifying thought crystalized in his mind. “I'm going to have to cut this warning short. You dance as well as Madame de Pompadour.”

The masked man kissed his hand, and then melted away amongst the whirling revelers. Jean-Claude watched him go, considering.

He did not know Death's face. No vampire did. The man - _not a man, fangs and fire, something other-_ did not even have a clear scent, overwhelmed by cologne as it was. The only one who could identify the nightmare made flesh was his Harry, and she was a bulwark of loyalty even as she knew Death would come for herself. If the price was right.

* * *

 

“Ma Petite,” Jean-Claude called as he caught Harry's expression in the rearview mirror. The Faire had closed in time with the last dance, as lovers and strangers bowed or curtsied, allowing workers to not so subtly herd their patrons to make their egress. His Harriet had required a bit of leading herself, and even now with her jaw set in an adorable pout her head listed to side. “Are you well?”

Dark eyes blinked rapidly and Harry hugged the carved stein protectively to her chest like it were a suckling babe. “I-I'm fine. _Fine_.”

Richard eased them onto the highway, crossing lanes and hurrying them to their hotel. The trail of red tail lights broke into the scattered beads but the ruddy complexion in his servant's cheeks remained. Jean-Claude wrapped a curl around his pointer finger and tugged, lightly, allowing the soft lock to slide against the skin like the silk of his dress. It was a little less than four hours till sunrise. “Do we need to stop?”

“I thought she went before we left?” Richard spoke up, glancing from the road to the rearview.

“I don't need to pee!” Harry yelped, the life blood in her face deepening, before she added; “I can hold it.”

“So you do need to go? The next exit isn't far, but I'm not sure how close the gas station-”

“Drive, Furball!” The wizard kicked the back of Richard's seat as the Ulfric laughed. Jean-Claude watched and opened the marks between them a tiny bit more. Harry huffed and sat back. She examined her hard won stein as though the answers to the universe were hidden in the empty depths. “I am fine. I just... I never found the bacon-soap.”

“Oh? Your spell failed?”

Harry sighed. “Not... exactly. It lead me to pork steak thingies, and then Marcie followed it to these cute little baby pot bellies -they were having a naming contest- while Captain Jack managed to talk a baked potato cart out of a jar of bacon bits. A whole jar of bits. To ward off Davy Jones gravy boat, presumably.”

Jean-Claude hummed. “Naming contest?”

Harry perked up, leaning forward and draping her right arm over the back of the vampire's seat. “I wrote in Hebert for the boy and Charlotte for the girl.”

“Why not Wilbur? And Charlotte was the spider's name.”

“And that is sheep thinking, Richard. Baaaaaring.” Harry giggled, as sweet as it was inelegant, and a comfortable silence suffused the car.

“Lots of sheep.” Richard's voice was speculative in their minds, half whisper. “Probably won't win.”

“I know.” Harry thought in return, jaw cracking as she yawned. Her head pressed against the side of Jean-Claude's chair as her eyes slid to half-mast in the dark interior. Each passing of lighted highway sign revealed the gradual fall of the fight against sleep.

Vampires didn't sleep – they died. Transitioning from oblivion to awareness was like being born anew every night. That was once one of their many names: children of the night. Such was what the oldest ones had called those they made themselves: _Childr._ But that term had long been retired by the time Jean-Claude was made, for young vampires could be traded like cheese and the Council sent their proxies to populate the world in their stead.

His Lady had been once such proxy, and yet he had been as a child to _her_. Never Belle.

((She was your Sun. And yet she left you.))

But all children have to grown up and cut the ties of apron strings.

Harry's fingers tickled his throat, movements slow as her mind drifted right on the edge, and he stilled them in the cage of his own. His servant murmured nonsense, tugged, and then let lie as Jean-Claude's thumb rubbed at the soft flesh of her palm. Alejandro had tried to take her, had laid his marks upon her as a cattle rustler over laying a brand, but he had failed.

Alejandro was dead, after over a thousand years, spitefully placed marks proven an incomplete liability.

 _That name. Justin._ Could the Aztec still haunt them? Despite only bearing two of four, could Harry have absorbed Alejandro's memories with the man's death and confused them? Jean-Claude glanced at the woman. Her eyes were almost entirely closed. Her pentacle dangled, tellingly, as dangerous as any cross.

“Hey,” Richard's hushed voice, loud in the silence of the car, broke through Jean-Claude's contemplation. He stood in the open door, the bright lights of the hotel shining through ruffled brown locks in a halo. “We're here.”

“Hugh?” Harry shook herself, her hand slipping from his grip as she pushed off his chair and slid across the back bench to the door. She fumbled at the handle while mechanisms in the door clicked on and off, the locking peg rising and falling flush with the molding before she could grasp it. “Riiichard.”

The Ulfric grinned as he helped Jean-Claude out of the car. “The Great Wizard Dresden, felled by child safety locks.”

“No!” Harry wailed exaggeratedly until Richard reached her own door and opened it, albeit with a little difficulty. The three of them entered the automatic doors, wolf supporting wizard as the two of them headed for the stairs. Jean-Claude offered a polite nod to the concierge and headed for the elevator. He kept track of his bonded as he waited for it to descend, his heart beating in time with Richard's, with Harry's, their energy rubbing against each other and blending as they climbed.

“ _I could just pick you up, would be faster.”_

“ _This is, this is why I'm a basement wizard. Dammit. Towers are... evil... and bullshit. You never hear about good wizards with towers. Just assholes.”_

Harry did not have a basement.

The elevator arrived with a chime and Jean-Claude entered, his image reflected back a hundred times in the mirrored siding. He began removing the pins in his hair, thinking, casting his mind back on the night. He hesitated to plunge deeper, to use his position as Master of their Triumvirate to force the knowledge he sought, for if his Harry realized he could do that much she would know what he had done.

And, Jean-Claude thought bemusedly as he stepped into the carpeted hallway, if he went that deep into his servant he was not sure he would be able to come out. His voice was her voice. She was his good left hand, weapon and wizard and confusingly, wonderfully herself. Two bodies, but one mind? Though bondings so thorough were rare, he'd seen it before.

He did not think he would like to experience it. Harry was his mirror, true enough, but he would not care for her to be him.

Jean-Claude paused at the door to their suite only long enough to slide the card into the lock. The latch popped with a burst of energy, red blinked to green, and he entered with a shake of his head. Freed braids tumbled down and he combed out forgotten bobby pins with his fingers. Richard and Harry were two candles in his awareness, so very alive, stumbling and laughing their way up the stairs.

In the bathroom, Jean-Claude finished letting his hair down and stared at the glory of himself. He raised a hand to his mouth and traced the twist of lips that lightened his eyes and lifted his shoulders. He hadn't smiled so freely since-

_Candle light, and chestnut waves. Eyes to match. She smiled, she was alive, and in this dark place that was a miracle unto itself. Not a drop of power in her, no beast no magic, but she was alive. So beautifully alive._

“ _I am sorry, Mon Ami.” Golden hair and eyes like cornflowers gleamed. Living roses bloomed on peach fields. “I have yet to introduce you. Julianne is my Human-Servant. She has been on a mission these past weeks.”_

 _-_ Asher.

The thought caught in his mind like a jagged piece of glass. He'd killed Asher as surely as if it had been his own hand to swing the sword. “No.” Jean-Claude whispered to himself, his wolf's words coming back to him even as the spark of his soul approached the room. Abruptly, Jean-Claude pulled back from the connection. “Asher died on the pyre with Julianne. I know not what creature Belle Morte salvaged, but it was not him.”

He smeared cleanser on his face, and scrubbed as if he could scour the twisted thoughts from his mind. Focus on something, anything, else. He had been happy. His patience was paying off, his Harry was reaching out like the skittish creature she was, but if he reached too far too fast she would run again. Perhaps further than he could allow.

Another thing she would not forgive him, if she knew.

“Damien.” He thought the words, plucking at the blood oath that tied to his temoin. Power vibrated along it like a song. “Do you have a moment?”

“Master?” His friend responded, uncertain. Jean-Claude peered out of the older vampire's eyes even as he splashed his face with water. Lather splattered the sink, though he was careful to avoid his dress. Damien was looking over an inventory report. “Your evening has gone well?”

“Mmm. Enlightening. I had a thought, though as manager I would leave the final decision up to you.” Jean-Claude paused, and felt threads of red fall forward as Damien bowed his head, fingers steepled. The Master of St. Louis could not send Damien a memory as he could with his bonded, but he expressed his feelings with the same magic that allowed his voice to seduce. “We have among our number dance masters, do we not? There is interest. There could be classes.”

Damien's thoughts were shielded, an empty field of grass, until a calculated tease rippled back to Jean-Claude. “There could be Balls.”

“Could be.” Jean-Claude dried with a towel fluffy enough to be a living creature. He untied the choker at his throat and sighed. Perhaps next year... if there was a next year... So long as Danse Macabre continued to turn a profit he would leave all decisions up to the old warrior. As it was with all his businesses and their managers. “She is yours, my friend.”

Damien was silent. Green eyes closed. He would make no decision tonight, or tomorrow night.

When midnight blue eyes opened, he saw only the vanity of the bathroom. Jean-Claude called to his wolf and Richard poked his head in, eyebrow arched. “The lacing?”

“Oui.”

The Ulfric was surprisingly adept at separating a lady from her bodice, but then again he did have Jean-Claude's own memories to guide him and the vampire had more than enough experience on both sides of the equation. Bereft of all but a single cotton nightshirt Jean-Claude glanced behind him as he left for bed. Richard was pulling his own shirt up over his head, oiled muscles pulling tight as he stretched.

There was a certain raw beauty in the motion. What was the phrase? Animal magnetism? Or was that bias simply because he knew of Richard's beast and could feel the creature pacing in his aura? The man was not what Jean-Claude typically chose for a lover, though the ardeur preferred power over beauty, and perhaps that was for the best.

Belle's court had turned making love into a punishment as much as a pleasure.

Yet...

Jean-Claude glanced around the suite, gaze skimming over the empty kitchenette to the couch of scattered, small pillows. The lights of the bedroom were out. Jean-Claude Listened past the sound of the Richard's shower and turned toward the door of the suite. It had been propped open, the swinging bar wedged between door and frame. With a sigh, the vampire crossed into the bedroom and crawled into his bedroll. Sleeping bag?

A coffin was traditional, but this was a quick trip.

And leaving his coffin in the city would prevent certain rumors.

Next year, and there would _be_ a next year, they would come for a different themed weekend. Did Harry like mermaids? Jean-Claude snuggled into the blackout bag, carefully zipping the down stuffed sides closed around him.

And shortly grunted as a the bed shuddered from shins knocking into it, and a soft petite form crashed atop him. Harry squirmed, all knees and elbows and the occasional softer thing, and Jean-Claude was trapped in the confines of his bag as she wrapped herself around him like a drunken octopus. Her head eventually settled on his shoulder with a murmur of, “'Mnot a potato.  'M 'abbage.”

For several long moments Jean-Claude did nothing but lay very still, listening to his own heart beat. He ached so sweetly. The vampire barely registered the squeal of the shower shutting off and the door creaking open, or the soft pad of paws on carpet. He blinked in the darkness as yet another weight leapt onto the bed and wriggled into position, pressing a line of heat along his right side.

Richard yawned, a single high pitched note, and rolled onto his back. Amber eyes glowed in the darkness with mischievous intellect. Jean-Claude wrinkled his nose as a long tongue flicked out and tagged his chin.

“ _Choit._ ” He admonished, whispering, but the other ignored him like the insolent beast he was. Richard settled, massive chest easing into a light pattern of rise and falls. Turning his neck, Jean-Claude watched as Harry breathed. Each exhale was accompanied by wafting scents of honey and hops from parted lips. “ _Enfant._ ”

He was caught between the werewolf's inferno of life and his necromancer's sweet chill. The marks linking them all pulsed, growing ever so slightly. Not a true marriage but... the ache inside eased the smallest bit. The Master of St. Louis basked in the wash of power.

_Ma belle et ma bête._

* * *

 

Jean-Claude had not moved, his attention drifting between his loves as they shifted in their sleep. Richard's paws twitched, and he knew the man dreamed of running beside his beast, the two disparate entities adoring of one another. That was not always so.

Sometimes, Jean-Claude peered into dreams of a massive wolf fetching a stick that was in truth a branch it could have crushed in its jaws.

Harry spoke in her sleep, nonsense and names that Jean-Claude wondered about, her own legs occasionally kicking as though she herself was running. But, Jean-Claude did not dare intrude on her dreams. That would be even more dangerous than slipping into her waking mind.

((You think so?))

She was beautiful. She was his. She was security. More than rules and tradition, she was a weapon on par with anything the Council could bring to bear. Jean-Claude looked down, neck stretching, and in the darkness none other than a vampire would be able to see. A single, chaste kiss...

A tracery of purple eyes opened on his Servant's forehead, and the phantom sound of singing steel echoed in his ears. Cold, unforgiving, metal pressed to his neck in warning.

((You would force more than Marks, Incubus?))

Jean-Claude did not need to breathe, and so he did not. He pressed on, pressure at his neck so much it was nearly painful, and brushed his lips at the skin between those burning eyes so gently they could be a butterfly wings. “You would not, I think, for you love Ma Petite as I do.”

((You presume too much, lordling.))

Yet the pressure eased. For his pain was Harry's, as much as her joy was his, and the guardian devil would not risk damage to her host. Not with their souls so intimately entwined. Jean-Claude smiled. Nothing about his Servant made sense. Not the memories. Not the magic. Not the entities that bound themselves to her as closely as he had bound her to him. Well, there was one theory that would allow all of it.

In the glow of the eyes, the cross shaped burn on Harriet's arm seemed somehow lesser.

 _Démon maléfique, ou dieu trompeur?_ Jean-Claude supposed it didn't matter, not when demons saved and priests murdered.

“I would love all parts of notre sorcière, esprit, if you would but let me.”

Purple eyes widened, blinked out, and the room plunged into a darkness deeper than black. The shields around Harry pulsed, heat racing along and reinforcing transparent walls. That was okay. He had all of eternity, or as long as their immortality lasted, to break them down.

The sun rose, and to his surprise Jean-Claude did not die.

He dreamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was the biggest pain. Keep in mind that by this point, vampire marks are the ONLY reason Harry is up and walking. Otherwise he'd be one of those armadillo's on the side of the road holding a beer bottle. Also, Lash shares senses with Harry, Jean-Claude shares senses with Harry, therefore Lash _can interact with JC_ using Harry's senses. 
> 
> Also, JC is a drama queen and would not cooperate at all. He kept making all the scenes longer than planned and so ruined pacing. Not so happy with the Kincaid bit, but need it there for the next chapter. So. Fucking. Glad. This. Is. Over.


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kincaid has the easiest clean up.
> 
> Harry can't say no to cute girls.

She couldn't speak, but they needed her to speak. Why else was she still alive? The blade that had split her throat and spilt her blood, her power, could have continued to her spinal cord. With a Master of sufficient power to call her back, a vampire could recover from a pierced heart, but a decapitation was final in all but legends. There was no stake driven into her chest, but there was a steady drip in her ears and a sharp pain at the bend of her elbow.

They needed her to speak.

Whoever they were.

Amanda coughed as her neck slowly knit around the microfilament holding it all together. She was surrounded by a darkness so bleak it could only mean her eyes had yet to grow back. There was the slim possibility of her having been buried by her captors but the air was too dry for that, and the call of the sun was hours away. Even in the depths of the earth vampires could always keep time by learned dread.

The slide of metal against metal was harsh in the quiet, and the complete lack of power accompanying the noise could only mean one thing: Human.

_Hunter._

“Eve'n, Sunshine.” The voice that spoke did so with a mocking twang, and something sharp and cold and _silver_ tapped her nose. She could taste the blessed metal past the flavor of her own blood, but that was _all_ she could taste. She shivered in her bonds, wood creaking as the unseen blade traced the curve of her cheek. “You know, I really thought after Colin went up like a drunk with a cigarette you bloodsuckers would have moved the fuck on. But someone has to be the village idiot.”

Amanda said nothing. They needed her to talk. If she did, they wouldn't need her anymore.

That, and she was fucking confused. Colin? The Master of Myerton?

Her captor sighed and she strained her hearing to keep track of his movements. The man was like ice. The steady drip of diluted blood was louder than the living heart that should have been pounding with adrenaline, with caution, with bloodlust. _Something_. She'd been in similar positions before, a hazard of existence, and humans were never calm with a top predator in the room.

It was instinct.

And every hunter knew you didn't wound what you could kill.

“Okay. Maybe that was a bit vague. Let's try this again. Who are you working for? Somehow, I can't imagine Serena would be stupid enough to pick a fight with the wolves. They aren't even her Animal to Call.” He paused, and there was the rough scrape of fingernails against skin. “Does she even have one?”

Amanda hacked as clotted blood sloughed down her esophagus. The skin pulled tight around the stitches as she worked her jaw, trying to draw attention to her aching fangs instead of her tensing arms as she tested the chains. Cold, not warm, so no holy objects but too thick and heavy to break at her current strength. Tight.

“Could be old guard unhappy with the regime change...? No?”

Amanda screamed as the silver edged knife dug into the meat of her thigh, scraping along the bone. It sat there, burning, edge held fast in the muscle. She panted, shivering. He'd torn open her throat with steel, but silver damage healed slow.

She'd had worse.

“I don't like being ignored, Amanda. Or should I say Rosaline?” Amanda swallowed back her pain as old wounds opened up inside. Thoughts sharpened into a razor of caution. If he knew that name, how much else did he know? Certainly not everything if he was questioning her about the scandal surrounding the new Master of Myerton. “Amanda, too weak to defend her own name. A Master, but only by technicality. More mercenary than manipulator, so why don't you tell me why you are so interested in Marianne? Someone out looking for their personal, supernatural nuke?”

“Bullshit.” Amanda whispered, hoarse. “It was probably you. Mined the lupanar, or had flame throwers in the reserve. No witch can Call Sunlight. Especially not that white-haired bitch.”

“While I am fond of my toys, I'm afraid I can't take the credit.”

Amanda whimpered as the knife in her thigh suddenly twisted. Good. That was good. Give him what he thinks he wants, and he won't look too deep...

...breath tickled her ear. When had he gotten so close? “Now, lets keep things civil or I'll have to wash that pretty mouth out with Holy Water. So, who is pulling the purse strings of the Spymaster?”

He wouldn't accept Serena. Someone from the original kiss? Maybe Barnaby; those of Morte D'Armour's line were notoriously hard to kill if they retreated to rotting form. Had he been burned as well? The hunter wouldn't believe her anyway, not right away, she'd have to make him work for it.

“If I told you that, I wouldn't be much of a mercenary, would I?” Amanda turned her head toward the scent of spiced smoke and snapped her teeth on empty air. A fist impacted beside her still empty eye socket and a starburst went off in her skull. She let her head lull, and spit to the side. A tooth plunked. She reached inwardly, to the mortals she'd bespelled in the name of entertainment, and slammed up against a wall of static.

Amanda gasped.

The man's voice fought through the buzz filling her head, soft and falsely sympathetic. “...get that, I do, but we're both professionals here.”

“You think you can hurt me, human? I've seen horrors that would make your dick shrivel up like worm in the sun.”

“You've clearly never seen my dick.” The soles of his shoes were silent as he padded back to the tray of implements. With his back turned Amanda began gathering her power. She let her head fall forward, hair hiding the pits in her face and the green flames that sparked within them.

There were only two reasons in the world she wouldn't be able to reach her thralls. The first, her Sourdre de Sang, the Traveler, denied it. But the Council claimed the Traveler dead, consumed by a conflagration almost as unbelievable as the story of an withered crone unleashing sunlight at high moon. The second option left her trapped in a Circle of Power, but that didn't make _sense_. Hunters did not utilize Circles, they took too much time to set up and only those of magical ancestry even realized their potential.

Her captor had no magic.

He approached, and she whipped up her head while casting her power like a net. It snagged something hot, alive, and she focused on that ember even as her shoulder shattered at the crack of a bullet. The thing in her power snarled, rolled, and worried at the threads of her energy like a dog with a bone. Sulfur filled her nose.

The faceless hunter thumbed red tears away, his voice oddly gentle. “My turn.”

...

...

...

The Hellhound set the syringe back on the tray with a little clack. He watched as the silver nitrate worked through the vampiress' system, spreading from the injection point like gray grasping roots. It was different when they were dead. He'd experimented when he first woke up in a motel room, his body a little shorter and his eyes a lot grayer, with a duffle bag full of weapons and nightstand covered in local bounties. Vampires injected while dead just didn't wake up, though sometimes the older and stronger ones would give a last dying gasp.

Maybe it was the fact her heart was beating and moving the poison along faster?

The Spymaster choked on air, whimpering as her joints locked up, and he shoved the muzzle of his .45 in her mouth before pulling the trigger. Her brains exploded out like raw meatloaf but the crying stopped and the creeping gray veins halted.

Probably the heart beat.

At least all those civilian chumps she'd been enthralling while traveling from faire to faire would be free now, not that they would even notice.

The Hellhound sighed and ran a hand through his short blonde hair, scratching at his scalp and thinking. He'd been pissed at first, and it had been that rage that sent him cracking the vampire over the head and slicing her throat so she couldn't call for help. Stupid move.

He'd seen her watching the Archive and jumped to conclusions. Ivy. Marianne. He would never forget staring into a toddler's eyes and seeing something as old and tired as time itself. And scared. If he was the type to believe in reincarnation she would have been all the proof he needed. The littlest witch had wormed her way into his pack of one like the world's most stoic puppy.

“Shit.  Fuck.” The Hellhound mumbled as he unlocked the chains and began dragging Amanda's corpse outside where the sunrise would clean it up.

They were a pack of two, The Archive and her Hellhound, and then the wizard equivalent of Moon-Moon showed up and made them a trio. Kincaid wasn't even sure when that happened, and he would always choose Ivy's safety over Harry's, but then he knew the former warden would do the same. He'd said so, not in so many words, but why else ask an assassin how he'd to go about killing oneself?

And now the Master of St. Louis was sniffing around their pack, and Harry's scent had changed beyond the degree of gender, and why couldn't things be simple?  He hated being bumped back to square one, having to relearn the who's who of the supernatural playing field. _Again._ He was sure his father was laughing in that Pit he called a home.

Death brushed his hands off on his pants as he dumped the corpse where it would catch early morning rays quickest and searched his pockets for his phone. The Council vote after Harry's barbeque was almost unprecedented, and the source of more gossip than a hair salon, but it should have ensured this Belle Morte chick would keep to her side of the pond. 

"Hell hath no fury."

What was with Dresden and goddamn sexpires? Did she give out fuck me pheromones, or something?

* * *

-Two Weeks Later-

I was lying on my stomach in my, really Vivian's, office and chewing on a pencil eraser as aforementioned assistant negotiated with a library out in Massachusetts. I'd already given a rough sketch of my old business cards to Zane with instructions to clean it up at Kinkos and make copies, but having gotten into one too many arguments with the local LEO's in various jurisdictions left me with a mighty need for pamphlets. I folded the brightly colored construction paper into thirds and wrote in big blocky letters on the top: _Psychic Gifts, A Conspiracy._

Gregory let out a little snort from where he was sitting at my side, looking over my shoulder. His hip pressed into my waist as he filled the room with the scent of sharpie, him coloring in my shit sketches, and I enjoyed the play of peaceful, warm energy over my aura. It was a therithrope thing, and one of the most healthy things the my kitties did. Leopards may be loaners in the jungle, but people are social animals. Without human contact you go crazy.

I mean, it isn't like you ever hear about a safe, sane, and consensual hermitage. No, it is always that crazy old cat lady... oh.

Am I the crazy cat lady?

Frowning at the thought, I drew a little stick figure in an obvious witches hat and gave it a big _Oh No, Mr. Bill_ expression. I then surrounded him with other stick figures all hiding their hats behind their backs as they sneered as evilly as stick figures could sneer. Which was pretty damn evil, if I do say so myself. I hurriedly flipped the paper open so I wouldn't have to look at the magical bullies and began my bulleted list of bullshit identifiers.

Vivian had her, my, appointment book open and was sighing into the phone as she had been doing for the last five minutes. A ballpoint pen we'd spitefully stolen from Animator's Inc. spun between her immaculate fingers. “I'm sorry, I am, but Miss Blake doesn't do parties. Even educational ones.”

I glanced up from my scribbling at that comment. Vivian's lower lip was jutting into her upper, the whole look a kissable frown, and she was cradling one elbow in the opposite palm as if she was fighting with the instinct to hold herself. Her hair had been run through a straightener and the ends curled up under her chin like a black picture frame. Dressed in one of her usual button up business blouses and pencil skirt, compared to me in my jeans and tee shirt bearing a unicorn dueling narwhal, she was the consummate professional.

Vivian was so good at her job, at running interference for me, I sometimes forgot that I was supposed to be her supervisor.

I nudged Gregory with my elbow and did a half push up to stand. Discarded construction paper crinkled beneath my bare feet as I headed for the desk, imminently aware of the line Zane had formed by dragging his heel through the plush carpet. I crossed that line. The phone crackled in response and Vivian winced.

Super hearing sucked sometimes.

I held out my hand and my personal assistant surrendered the phone with a bashful ducking of the head before immediately zipping over to the arts-and-crafts corner. She pressed herself into the wall, gaze not wavering from the many slips of bright cheerful paper littering the floor, and I watched as Gregory reached over to pat her shin. He wiggled a yellow Sharpie at her.

“Yo.” I spoke into the receiver, rolling right over a voice that was decidedly young and female. “Like she said, I don't do parties. Or any other entertainment.”

“Um, Miss Blake?”

“Dresden. We're trying to distance ourselves from The Corporation.” When in doubt, pretend you're a queen.  Technically, I was.

“Please, let me explain. You see, we host a book club on Wednesday nights and every year they vote on a guest speaker. The whole library gets into it, a few years ago we even got Orson Scott Card to come, but this year some joker decided to write in Emily Dickinson and it snowballed from there.” As the woman on the other end went on her words came faster, and I watched the clock with a prepared negation on my tongue. I loved magic, I used it in everyday life, but that didn't mean I would whore it out to be googled at like some freak curiosity. For that same reason I only did animations for settling legal disputes or allowing loved ones final good byes.

In one exceptional case I let an eighty year old man dying of lung cancer confess his love to his high school crush. The man had died smiling two days later. His crush had been reciprocated.

I leaned against the desk, the heel of my palm grinding into the wood. The chime of the doorbell echoed down the hall. Gregory rolled to his feet and Vivian followed him to the doorway. I waved her on when she turned to look back at me as I cradled the hardened plastic between shoulder and ear. “Not filling me with confidence, Mrs....?”

“Aster. Juliet Aster, Head of Client Services. Jones Branch Library.”

“Even assuming everyone is nice and respectful to Ms. Dickinson, you do know how much I charge, right?” My rates were reasonable, considering that the difficulty of raising a corpse increased exponentially with age if used the salt-steel-blood method. The poet in question was over a hundred years dead. There was only one other animator in the United States who could do it without resorting to the kind of thing I'd have to kill over, and he was mostly retired. I'd heard from Larry that Bert was desperately trying to keep John Burke on the payroll after I'd left, and apparently my move had put enough pressure on the morally bankrupt asshole that he might be stepping down as CEO.

Juliet continued, and I could hear the relieved smile on her face. “Miss Bl- Dresden. I cannot assure you enough, everyone will be on their best behavior. We've even been in contact with one of the local historical societies to provide costumes so that Ms. Dickinson won't experience too much culture shock.”

That last bit over lapped with a _Harry! There's a Mysterious Box for you!_ shouted from the foyer.

“Look,” I said with a sigh of my own. No wonder Viv had difficulty turning her down.  Her voice was distilled enthusiasm, she sounded like she should be wearing a pleated skirt and waving pompoms. “The restrictions on animating celebrities are, well, restrictive. I'm fairly certain this counts. You would have to get it cleared by the whoever is in charge of her Estate -whoever that is- as well as a local Judiciary. Which will probably be another expense assuming both parties agree. Then you have to find an animator who would be willing and able to do the job.”

“Which would be you!”

“I didn't say that.”

“Please, Miss Dresden. This isn't just about the book club... you see, we receive a considerable sum every year from the city. Usually it is put toward improving our facilities or buying new or rare books, replacing old ones and the like, but there was a significant surplus this year and if we don't use it...”

“...you lose it.”

“Exactly. If we can't show the funds have been allocated back to the community in some way the likely hood of us getting nearly as much next year is rather... well...”

I bit my lip. I sympathized. I'd heard complaints of inter-office politics from Murphy often enough to get what was going on. That Special Investigations ran as smoothly as it did was a testament to Murphy's ability to bullshit on reports and justify expenses as much as it did actual police work. “If I agree to this,” I talked over what sounded like someone whispering a weather report. “It is going to be classy. And no more than fifty, no, forty people. Total. Including your book club and historians and _me_. I will bodily remove anyone I feel shouldn't be there. Or is disrespecting the dead.”

“Y-yes! Thank you!”

“I'll have my assistant call you back to work out a date, okay? Okay.” I hung up before she could say anything else and collapsed into Vivian's chair, pillowing my head in my arms. Juliet Aster sounded cute. I wondered if the face matched the voice. I imagined a spray of freckles across a button nose, and her hair up in a bun with pencils sticking out of it. Blonde? Brunette? _Bluette?_

Had I remembered to tell her she was paying my travel expenses? Had Vivian told her?

“I should make a pamphlet for this...” I grumped, hating myself just a little bit.

A mess of blond curls peaked around the opened door. Gregory's grin faded to a confused smile as he took in my moping. He stepped around the scattered paper like the dancer he was until he stood before the desk in lazy house cat chic. His gray heather lounge pants were comfortably loose and right at my eye level. Staring at his very well defined hip bones I honestly wasn't sure how they stayed up. “Harry? You got a box.”

We left the office with me trailing Gregory to the kitchen. The delivery in question had been placed on the table beside bowls of lukewarm milk and swollen, artificially favored corn based byproduct. Vivian stood next to the cardboard mystery, leaning over the unmarked package with her eyes closed and making tiny movements as she scented the air. The noontime light fell across her face from the window in an inversed dappling of her leopard form. She blinked rapidly and tapped it with a nail file that normally lived in her purse, “It, um, smells like The Master.”

I scowled and plucked the nail file from her, spinning it around and pressing the pointed tip to the thin membrane of the packing tape that sealed the box shut. It wasn't that I was mad at Viv or JC, even if the memory of waking up wrapped around his sleeping bag entrapped form continuously brought a blush to my face, but I was upset at this whole thing that we did not have. Jean-Claude was Master of the City but he wasn't Master of Me, or the Blooddrinkers, but apparently you couldn't even spend a weekend with friends without everyone assuming crazy hot monkey sex went on.

The only hot monkey sex I'd had as a woman had been in my dreams, where I was male, and stars above, I really, truly hoped JC had died for the day before my sleeping body leaked the arousal that Lash encouraged with nimble fingers and a naughty tongue. The angel had been particularly aggressive that night, too, her mouth catching mine hard enough to bruise had the action been physical.

The cardboard flaps opened with dull pops, revealing the breadbox sized container absolutely stuffed to the brim with technicolor bricks of homemade soap. I inhaled, trembled, and let the scents of chocolate, mint, rosemary, cinnamon, and bacon float around me like delicious pixies. It was as though by opening that box I'd stepped inside a fancy French restaurant. My mouth watered. _That sly son of a bitch._

I lowered a chunk of light brown amazing from my face, hard bits of something that might have actually been broken peppercorns held within, and picked up a folded sheet of thick, pink, textured paper nestled beneath that first layer of soap blocks. The paper was handmade, scented by the time spent in the box, and as I scanned the first few lines of calligraphy my thumb ran over one of the rose petals that had gone into the paper making process.  That was just, neat.  And he didn't mention my passing out on him like a freshman at his first party, not even to make some kind of play at my subconscious sex drive. What happens in Renaissance Vegas, stays in Renaissance Vegas?

I kicked a chair out from under the kitchen table and plopped down, a smile sneaking onto my face. For an undead monster, JC was a total foodie.

_Ma Petite,_

_Monsieur Gil wishes to update the menu for Danse Macabre, unfortunately neither I nor Damien are capable of providing adequate feedback..._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking a Haitus from Dresden to catch up on reading and work on some other fic that needs completition. So here's a hint for the next bit to tide you over:
> 
> -  
> Harry Dresden - Executioner  
> Animations. Assassinations. Advice.  
> Exorbitant Rates.  
> -  
> 


End file.
